The Dying Detectives
by Januscars
Summary: "We're trapped in the car. I don't think Sherlock'll last much longer. I can't-I can't-I think he's choking, Jesus, help me Greg!" Injury/sick fic in which Sherlock and John are badly injured in a car accident. How will Lestrade cope, with his best friends dying? A bit of confronting description. (T for descriptions)
1. The Crash

**A/n: This story is a little... heavy, I suppose. At least, it felt that way while I was writing it. I feel extremely guilty doing this to my two favourite characters on Tv, but it can't be helped. I will hopefully continue this, but I'm juggling a couple stories at the moment (not all fanfics unfortunately) and quite a bit of homework, what with exams. But... I simply had to upload this.**

* * *

The taxi careened around the corner, artfully dodging the other cars with the sort of skill reserved specifically for impatient cab drivers. Sherlock sat in the back seat next to John, talking loudly into his mobile to Lestrade.

"No, check the sister's record. Yes, the sister. Yes, I know she said – no, I realise that. Look, no, wait a second. Can you go any faster?" he raged at the cabbie, who obediently sped up.

The cabbie was one of the few who still drove past Baker street, and one of the even smaller group that would contend to pick up the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Some of the others still picked up Watson, but never the two of the together.

In any case, as a consequence of this infamy they knew this particular cabbie quite well, and he obeyed Sherlock's slightly over zealous demands as a matter of course. He mainly put up with them for the tips, though. Dr Watson had taken to giving cabbies tips when they had to deal with a Sherlock's more abusive eccentricities. The size of the tips usually made up for the shouting.

"No, take the left!" Sherlock roared, as the cabbie took the more conventional route to the police station, "That's the slow way."

John held his head in his hands as the cabbie glanced back at them quickly.

"Cant' go up there gov," the man said dully, "Gotta detour this way. Won't take that long."

Sherlock sat back and huffed, "Well, alright," he said angrily, "But hurry up. Lestrade, are you still there?"

There was a faint noise of conformation over the phone, as Lestrade came back on the line.

"Right, try and find the sister. It doesn't matter as much, but she might be in trouble. No, I know that they told you- look, do you – CHRIST!"

John whipped around, but Sherlock was already leaping forward at the cabbie, tearing at his seatbelt in an effort to move. John looked back out of the windshield, just in time to see the semitrailer's bumper plough into the side of the car, throwing him into a world of noise and pain.

* * *

There was an ear-wrenching sound as the car's tough metal shell twisted under the sudden, terrifying impact, and John felt his neck strain and his head whip backwards as his body tried to continue on at its previous speed. Glass flew through the air, and the cabbie was flung around like a ragdoll, kept in his seat by the seatbelt which sawed at his chest. The semi-trailer was creaking and groaning as it finally rolled to a stop, the taxi stopping with it.

The semi-trailer's driver fell out of the cabin, with a large gash on his face, and was helped away from the scene by some of the less shaken passers-by.

John sat amongst the twisted metal and broken glass, as the bonnet of the largely undamaged semitrailer smoked and spouted small wisps of flames. He tried to move, but couldn't. His seatbelt was half strangling him and he tried desperately to tear it off, away from his neck. He couldn't call for help.

The phone sat on the seat, still connected. But he couldn't reach it, not with the seatbelt trapping him against the ripped car seat. He strained to reach it with his fingertips. He could hear screaming, a rasping, coughing, desperate scream, and for a moment he thought it was his. It sounded a little like what his scream would sound like – if he could scream. But then a spark of realisation hit him… it wasn't him - the seat belt wouldn't let him scream. He could feel his throat bobbing and straining to make a noise, but it was producing no sound.

So who _was_ screaming?

That spark of realisation froze. It fell through the air and dropped into the pit of his stomach, where it sat, cold. John felt his mind roll and shake and shout within him, felt his throat pulse and try to cry out. He stared across at the other side of the car, the side that had taken the majority of the impact, perhaps sparing him from harm. Oh god.

John wasn't screaming.

Sherlock was.

* * *

"Sherlock? What was that?"

Anderson looked up from his work, and a couple of the other officers looked at Lestrade in confusion. He ignored them.

"Sherlock? What's happening?"

Anderson rolled his eyes, and sat back. He knew what this was. It had happened before.

"Probably one of his _experiments._" He said, "Probably testing the… Psychological… thingy," he said, unable to think of a proper scientific term. Sherlock had been insensitive on the phone before, more than once, and had always boiled it down to 'an experiment'. Frankly, it pissed Anderson off, more than his usual Sherlock-antics.

"Tell him he's an idiot." He added for good measure.

Lestrade ignored him. There was no sound at the other end of the phone, and his heart started pumping away somewhere near his throat.

"Sherlock? What the hell is-"

There was a scraping, shuffling noise, and a voice echoed through it.

"Greg? God – got – have"

"John? What's happening?"

Heads turned. There was a note of panic in the DI's voice that sounded more foreboding of something serious. Anderson stood, watching the Detective-inspector's face.

"Jesus… Are you alright? Is he alright? Oh, my god, no, I'm coming, Jesus. No, stuff the case, I'm… oh my god, Is there and ambulance? I'm coming, I'm coming, hold on."

"What is it?" Anderson said cluelessly. He still didn't relinquish the suspicion this was another one of the freak's 'experiments'. Greg knew what he was thinking, and wiped his forehead, pulling on his coat as he dashed towards the door.

"Their taxi was hit by a semi-trailer, Jesus Christ, he's dying.."

Anderson felt a swoop in his stomach. There wasn't even time for the guilt to set in, as he followed Lestrade out of the building and slung himself into the car. The DI gunned the motor and sped off into the crowd.

"What happened?" Greg yelled into the phone, not bothering to stop to talk, but careening through the streets with only one hand on the wheel, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, no, god, I don't know," John said frantically, sounding as though he were speaking through a mouthful of blood. Lestrade blanched as he realised that this was probably the case. John wheezed, "The cabbie's a bit hurt, but he's okay, I guess. Oh god. We're trapped in the car. I don't think Sherlock'll last much longer. I can't-I can't-I think he's choking, Jesus, help me Greg!"

"Hold on John, there's an ambulance coming," Greg reassured him as the vehicle in question hove into view in his rear view mirror, "Hold on, we're coming."

The dial tone sounded in his ear, and he threw the phone aside. Jesus.

* * *

John slumped. His legs were pinned under god knows what – something metal – and he couldn't reach Sherlock. Sherlock was unconscious, but in the flickering light, John couldn't properly see him. He was limp, and rolled with the slight movement of the car. He was no longer screaming. John had never heard him scream before. Not like that.

There was an almighty wrenching noise, as someone outside tugged on the door. John finally felt that scream burst from his lips, as the bowing door pressed against the sharp metal that dug into his legs, driving it deeper into his flesh. In pure agony, he writhed and thumped his hand against the miraculously intact window. The tugging stopped, and a face appeared at the window.

"John?" came the familiar voice, and John could have cried with relief.

"Don't pull- hurts – gotta - Greg – no, it's Sherlock, he's dead, he's dead, Sherlock!" John yelled in an apoplexy of fear, as the detective began to convulse, and John immediately knew that he was choking, "Sherlock!"

He began to fade, falling into unconsciousness' waiting arms. A hand started pulling the glass away from the car door, trying to get to him.

"Sherlock…" he whispered, unable to hold on any longer.

He slumped back onto the battered headrest, dead to the world.


	2. The Saviours

Lestrade's face was ashen. He was helping the ambulance crew break their way into the car, and could see John, white faced and shaking. The car was crushed. It was impossible to believe anyone, let alone all of them, had survived the crash.

John was unconscious, and Greg could see blood oozing from immense cuts down his legs. A large piece of metal was digging into them, and there were large gashes on his face where the glass had cut him.

The ambulance officers finally succeeded in lifting the mangled metal off him, and Lestrade rushed in to help. No one complained, and they let him and Anderson assist getting John clear of the crash site. The others busied themselves frantically trying to extricate Sherlock.

Lestrade and Anderson were instantly swamped by medics who slid John, moaning faintly, onto a stretcher.

The two policemen stood back, helpless, as there were frantic shouts from the car, and John was transported to the nearest of the two ambulances. There was a lot of shouting, on both sides, and Greg couldn't understand most of it. It sounded bad, whatever it was.

Now that John was safe, or at least, safer, Greg could turn his mind back to Sherlock. The Detective was still trapped in the car, and the frantic shouting and screaming for help didn't bode well for his condition. There was a lot more blood on the medics hands, and there were frantic shouts about choking, oxygen and blood loss. Greg stumbled a little, disbelief still warring with his fear. This was not happening.

The medics were sliding boards down the side of the car next to Sherlock through the shattered window so that they could cut him out safely. Lestrade felt his heart leap in his chest as the chain-saw like instrument buzzed and screeched. It cut, complaining, through the tough metal shell that had caved in so completely to form an immense steel cocoon around the detective, sparks flying.

Greg couldn't help but imagine what else that saw would be cutting through, if it wasn't for those boards. He felt sick.

Anderson jumped slightly, as there was a large shout, and most of the door came away in the medic's hands. Sherlock, now unsupported, flopped out of the gap and lolled, half in and half out of the car. Hands quickly reached in to steady him, and more tried to extricate his legs. Anderson felt sick, and turned away. Lestrade stared, unable to remove his gaze. God, the blood…

"Jesus…" he whispered again, feeling shaky. Anderson grabbed his arm to steady him, and helped him lower himself slowly to the ground. One of the medics that stood around, unable to help with the extrication, detached himself from the frantically milling crowd and came to squat down beside Lestrade.

"Do you know them?" The man asked. He looked young, and Lestrade wondered how many crashes like this he had experiences. Too many, he thought. He nodded dumbly.

The doctor put his arm around Greg, "They're okay. Well, they're not dead. And…" The man looked confused and awkward, realising he had not improved the situation. Lestrade took a deep breath.

"Just tell it to me straight. I've… been through this before." he said quietly. He hadn't. But he wanted the truth. He didn't want some molly-coddled version.

"The one in the ambulance-"

"John." Lestrade corrected automatically. The medic nodded.

"John, well, he's quite badly hurt. Not critical, at this stage. He's lost a heck of a lot of blood, and he was a bit delusional when he woke – well, he was conscious for a few seconds, kept muttering something about how he owed someone something or… something like that. His right leg is broken, and he's badlydamaged the muscles of both of his thighs. Severe concussion, broken nose. He's likely to survive and fully recover… well, we hope. There's no definite way of knowing yet. He could still…" The medic looked at him awkwardly.

Greg gulped, and nodded.

"And… Sherlock?" He asked in a dry whisper. The medic turned to look at the car.

"I don't know. He's in a really bad way. His skull is cracked, left lung has been punctured, multiple broken or cracked ribs… he was choking on blood when we got to him, but we managed to clear his airway out a bit. His legs are… Not in a very good condition. And his spine may be damaged. He's lucky he didn't break his neck," The medic said with a weak grin, trying to add some comfort into the spontaneous diagnosis, and failing miserably.

Greg paled, and Anderson sat down next to him. The medic squeezed his shoulder.

"He's lost a lot of blood. We need to get him out of the car but that… isn't going too well."

Greg nodded, "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely through cracked lips. The medic smiled sadly, and helped Anderson support Lestrade as they lead him over to the second ambulance. The ambulance that held John had sped off, and Lestrade hoped that he was still unconscious. He hoped John didn't know how bad Sherlock was. He knew how agonising it would be for the doctor, and knew they shared the same feelings. They had already 'lost' Sherlock once. Now he was back, and Greg shuddered to think of losing him again. And by a car crash, no less. Not a dastardly super criminal forcing him to commit suicide. Not food carefully laced with poison. Not a gunshot from an enemy. Not going down with a fight, doing what he loved. A faulty brake and a patch of icy road - that was all it could take.

Greg was vaguely aware of orders to breathe deeply, unconsciously aware of the slight bubble of humour that welled in his throat as one of the spare medics placed a bright orange shock blanket around his shaking shoulders. He was very, very aware of a freed Sherlock being limply carried toward a stretcher. Greg's vision was going all swimmy, but he could still make out he detective, slumped over the stretcher, and it was a sight too horrible for him to comprehend. The legs seemed all wrong, all out of place. So did one of his arms – like he was the doll of some giant child, broken under a careless foot and tossed aside. He watched as the curly mop of hair disappeared into the ambulance. There was a small trail of blood following in his wake.

Greg was suddenly aware of a large grey thing rushing up toward him, and hands reaching out to catch him before he smashed his skull on the pavement. He collapsed in a dizzy faint as the sirens wailed in his ears. He let his head rest on the ground, vaguely thinking to himself before the faint took a full hold. _No, please…God, no._

**A/N: Wow. That gore got followers quick (:**

** I got all inspired and wrote another quick thousand words before bed (instead of studying), and here's the result. It's disturbing how much fun this is… Anyway, I'm fairly sure there actually won't be much more for a while, because I will ****_actually_**** study tonight. I will. **

**In the meantime, please review. Thanks very much to a couple of people who pointed out a couple of mistakes I made (because I'm not British, worse luck), so if you're from England and notice any of my Australianisms that don't make sense, please mention them. It's a huge help!**

**-JC**


	3. The Madman

The corridor was quiet. Morose. Greg sat with the shock blanket still draped around his shoulders. He clung to it as if for support. He was completely alone – Anderson had left to calm things down at the office, although Greg hadn't really expected him to stay. The long white corridors glimmered faintly. The fluorescent lighting was making his head hurt, and he closed his eyes. God, it was no use. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see Sherlock hanging limply out of the car, broken and lifeless. And John – Jesus Christ, his face. When he had looked through the window, blood and tears and absolute fear blaring on his face- that haunted Greg even more than the broken body of the detective.

Well, no, it didn't. Nothing could possibly compare to that sight. Greg could still hear the screech of the saw cutting through the metal, see the splayed and twisted limps, hear the screams, God it was too much for him. No, no no no, this was not possible. This was all a mistake, that was it. A horrible, terrible mistake. He was dreaming. He was hallucinating. This wasn't physically possible, was it? Those two men, those two epitomes of action suddenly felled, no, it was all a horrible dream. Greg started to hyperventilate, and forced himself to breathe deeply. It couldn't really be possible, could it? No. It couldn't. This was all a dream.

But this was a pretence he couldn't keep up. The reality was glowing all around him – it had happened. The muffled voices in the room opposite, where John was being worked on. The memories in his head. Sherlock's scarf and coat, ripped and torn and cast aside outside the door. A little pool of blood was resting on the floor beneath it, where it had trickled from the sleeve. He stared at it. It was drying now, and left a brown stain on the linoleum.

He glowered at it. It infuriated him, that little pool of blood. All of his friend he could see at that moment in time, all that was close to him, a ruined coat and a pool of blood. How was it possible? That it had come to this? Him, alone in a corridor, with his two best friends in different rooms, both dying, both in such agonising pain, and all he could see was that bastard drop of blood, that bastard, sitting there, _taunting _him. It was taunting him, knowing how much it hurt him to sit here, on this hard plastic chair in this glowing sterile hall, with his friends dying and that stupid pool of fucking blood, it wanted him to scream – His thoughts were spinning in his head, a random jumble of emotions.

_[The blood _his_ blood no I hate it hate it this is too much no this isn't possible not possible I can't think no god it can't be not Sherlock not John no no no stupid spot of blood you want me to scream don't you I hate you I hate you I-]_

Greg cracked. He couldn't hold it back any longer, he just wanted to scream and scream and yell at the walls, run in there and grab Sherlock and shake him awake, to _force_ him to get better. He let a little sob out of his throat, and leapt to his feet, his heel coming down on the dried brown flakes. That stubborn stain stuck fast, and he ground his heel on it, tears streaking down his face. There was a little ring of deep brown still caked around the edge, and he fell to his knees, tearing at it with his nails, rubbing it furiously.

[_Stupid blood it won't come off he's dead they're dying no no no no stupid blood it wants me to hurt I hate you you stupid STUPID STUPID STUPID-]_

Greg started to shake, tearing at his own nails now, where the dried blood was caked. He sat against the wall, shaking and crying, picking out the tiny balls of blood and flinging them as far away from him as possible. He had always tried to be on top of the situation, in control. But he couldn't, not now, not while they were lying nearly dead. He was going crazy, he could feel it.

It was as if he was standing outside his own body now, watching an insane man shake and cry and whimper like a pathetic little child. God he hated himself, right at that moment in time he hated himself. Pathetic, that was what he looked. Pathetic.

* * *

Greg sat back, energy spent. The tears still dribbled down his face, but they were slow now. One of his fingernails was cracked, and a little drop of blood oozed out of it. He looked at it disconnectedly. He had done that. It hurt. Quite a lot actually. He wiped his eyes, trying to reinstate some normalcy.

A nurse jogged down the corridor holding some bags of blood, and Greg straightened. She turned to look at him, and he gave her a watery smile. The nurse instinctively paused in her flight and moved towards him, as if to bring comfort. The man looked so lost, that maternal side of her wanted to touch him – but then she remembered her duty, which was towards the dying. She gave him a small smile, trying to show how much comfort she wanted to bring him. He smiled sadly to her.

She drew herself back up, and scurried into the room that held John - leaving a broken, pathetic, tear-drunk man behind her.

* * *

**A/N: well, Lestrade just went a little insane, poor man. Hope you don't mind. Hey, you should be happy. I took your advice and wrote this instead of studying. Pfft, Studying. This was far more fun. (well, it's true. It's horrible, but true)**

**-JC**


	4. The Dreamer

**A/N: Chapter four, in which Greg Lestrade has a rather disturbing dream. **

* * *

_ "I can't – I can't – I think he's choking, Jesus, Greg help me!"_

_The words spun around in his broiling head. Who was that shouting? He couldn't remember. What was he doing?_

_ The case, right, the case. Smashed car. Must have crashed. Not much for him to investigate then. _

_Greg stood, eying the crash site with a passive eye. The car was there, smouldering in the middle of the road. He started to walk around it, carefully eying the scene, noting down any details that might be necessary to the case. He crouched down and put his finger in a pool of the blood. It was slightly congealed. Greg squatted for a second more, and then stood, shaking his head._

_"Definitely happened over an hour ago. Who were the victims?"_

_There was no reply, he looked around, confused. Where were all the other officers? This was a crime scene. Why was he on his own?_

_"Oh, they're no-one. Forget about them," said a voice behind him. He recognised it immediately, and felt relieved. At least Sherlock was here. That was something. Sherlock bent down and started looking around on the ground._

_"Where's everyone else?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shrugged, "John and I are in the car, and I don't know about the others."_

_"In the car?"_

_"Yes, in the car, obviously. Check the driver, I don't think he had anything to do with it, but it's worth hearing his side of the story. Unfortunately the victims aren't exactly in a position to tell us anything."_

_"They aren't?"_

_"No, have you seen them?"_

_Lestrade stuck his head into the car. There were a couple of bodies inside, but they were faceless. He nodded to himself. One of them was wearing a sweater. It looked vaguely familiar. Lestrade picked at it, and looked up._

_"No, I suppose they aren't." He said, eying the bodies. _

_They were both so obviously dead that he didn't even bother to check the pulses. The car seemed to have moulded itself around their bodies. Sherlock stood silently behind him for another second, and then leant forward to look closer at the bodies._

_"Anyway, we need to establish a time of death," he said, turning to look Greg in the face._

_Lestrade screamed. _

_The Detective's face was awash with blood. Flaps of skin hung from his face, exposing a partially shattered skull. Blood bubbled at his lips, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Lestrade stumbled backward, and Sherlock reached out a hand to steady him, a look of concern on his ruined face. His arm was twisted, hand mangled._

_"Are you alright?" he asked, but his voice bubbled along with the blood, grating like cracked bones rubbing against each other. Lestrade stumbled back, "Get away from me!"_

_"Aren't you going to help?" Sherlock asked him, confused. His jaws clicked and scraped._

_There was a loud revving noise, and a screech of brakes. Greg spun around, to see headlights bearing down on him, washing the scene with light. He heard screaming. Sherlock, standing next to him, didn't have time to move, and as Lestrade leaped out the way the truck smashed into his body, throwing him across to slam the wrecked car. Lestrade screamed, staring at the car. The thing that had hit it was large and black, but as he watched it faded, leaving only the car standing there, mangled and crushed. His horrified eyes were drawn to the window where Sherlock was hanging limply, strapped into the seat. _

_Strapped into the seat?_

_The passengers weren't faceless anymore. John was reaching out for him, pleading, blood welling from his eyes like tears. Sherlock, half out of the car, started to twitch and writhe. Blood spilled from between his lips._

_"I think he's choking. Jesus, Greg, help me!"_

_John was staring at him, eyes so pleading._

_Dead? Greg stumbled, hearing voices running through his head in a stampede of fear and pain._

_"I think he's choking- Help me!"_

_"In the car, obviously."_

_"Sherlock, he's dead, he's dead, Sherlock!"_

_"I'm coming, I'm coming,"_

_"He's dead – SHERLOCK!"_

_Greg screamed._

* * *

He had fallen asleep, there on the floor. He woke to find himself snuggled half in the bright orange blanket, and half in Sherlock's coat, tears dripping down his face, and a scream on his lips. He clutched momentarily at the coat. The image of Sherlock, reaching for him with mangled hand was burnt into his brain. He wiped his face, and blood came with it. For a moment he thought that it was his blood. But it wasn't. The coat he had pressed against his face was soaked.

Hours passed. Slowly. Agonisingly. The activity in the rooms were great, but Greg was outside it all, unable to understand the significance of any of the words flung at random. His mind was boiling.

He meandered slowly into the bathroom. The walls were blank and sterile. Every bit of this damn hospital was sterile, except the one place he wanted to be. Well, the two places. They were in separate rooms, weren't they?

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. There was blood dried on his face, and he looked at it with uncaring eyes.

Disconnected. Blank. Blank face. Blank blood. Just blood, not _Sherlock's _blood. Just blood. He felt as if he were back on a crime scene, analysing the victim, half the time forgetting that the limbs he was rotating, the body he was lifting, the life he was investigating actually had belonged to someone. Someone had lived in that body, used those limbs, lived that life. He felt like that now. It was hard to believe that the blood on his face had been a part of his best friend. It had kept him alive.

He bent, and submerged his face in the lukewarm water. His face prickled as his freezing flesh came into contact with warmth. He looked back up at the mirror, water dripping off his face in a small stream. He stared at his face, into his own eyes. The eyes were red, with tears or tiredness, but probably a combination of both. He stared into them, then flicked back to his face.

There were lines there he didn't remember. His eyebrows were taut. His forehead was creased, and he attempted to straighten it. It didn't work. His eyebrows didn't want to release. He tried to smile, but it came out as a ghoulish grimace, so he stopped. That was it. Blank blank blank. He couldn't think. Blank blank blank.

He dried his face on the towel, and mechanically unzipped his trousers in front of the urinal. He rested his head on the cool of the tiles. His head hurt. He wasn't sure if I he had hit it on something, or maybe it was just the mental stress. He zipped his fly back up, and let his hands run under the water. He rubbed his temples with dripping fingers. God it all hurt too much. Maybe Sherlock had got it right. Maybe caring was a disadvantage. He could do it, couldn't he? Just stop caring. Yes, be blank. Blank blank blank, It sounded so good.

If only he could just not care. If only it were that easy.

* * *

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm not bloody alright." Lestrade half snapped. He leant against the wall, and sighed, "No word, no sign, no update… I've been here hours, and nothing. They're not telling me anything. They could be dead. They could be alive. I don't know... What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, I just … I can't think. This is all…"

"Yeah, I know."

He and Mrs Hudson were sitting outside the rooms, leaning on each other for support, both physically and mentally. Mrs Hudson had been told, and had arrived in a rush, make-up askew and dress covered in flour. He had been so glad to see her, he readily admitted it. She was the only other person Greg felt he could really confide in, about Sherlock and John at least. Well, maybe Molly.

But Sherlock had no other friends. John did, but none of them were friends with Greg. They hadn't been very good friends to John anyway, now that he came to think of it. Who had been there for John after Sherlock had to fake suicide? Who had been there for him, after his best friend had lain, with his face smashed open on the pavement? Who had been there when Sherlock couldn't be, when he had gone into hiding? Who had helped John through it? Him, Mrs Hudson and Molly. Oh, and Stamford. Yes, that was about it. No-one else. That was what real friends were for. Being there no matter what.

None of John's 'friends' had been there that whole time. None of them had left work at his call, when he felt like giving up. None of John's 'friends' had run to his rescue when he had fleetingly thought of suicide himself. None of his 'friends' had helped him get through it. None of them had convinced him to withstand the tide of slander he still got from those who called themselves 'pro-Brooks', insisting Sherlock was a fraud and accusing John of... No, none of them had been there, and none of them were here now. Greg bit his lip. they hadn't really been friends at all, just passing colleagues.

Maybe John did have just them.

"I just," Mrs Hudson said, and hiccupped, pressing her hand over her mouth, "I can't-" She buried her face in her hands. Lestrade patted her shoulder awkwardly. She pulled her face from her arms as if it took colossal effort, tears welding desperate tracks down her face, "They can't be, They're my boys, my boys, how can they-" She collapsed back into tears, arms wrapped tightly around her head. She was sucking in huge, choking gasps.

Greg touched her shoulder, and she glanced up. He had tears running down his face as well, and they simultaneously went for a hug. Each one sought both the comfort of the other and to give the other comfort in return. Mrs Hudson patted Greg's back, and he squeezed her tightly.

"It's okay," he whispered, "I know, I know."

There was a loud banging sound as a door was slammed, and Greg started upright. The sympathetic nurse from the previous night was standing, watching them. She looked around, and them walked towards them.

"Are you, um, are you two friends? Of them, I mean?" She asked briskly, pointing at the two doors.

"Yes," Greg said, standing. His heart started to thump away in his chest.

The nurse gestured for them to follow them. "There are some things we should discuss with you." She said simply.


	5. Who wants to live forever?

It's funny how small people look when they're dying.

And not just when they're dying, but especially when they're dying and someone is trying to save them. When they're helpless; lost in the folds of a white, sterile bed. Hospital beds, large and sanitary. With blankets covering the chin, and pillows covering the head. Pale, stick-like and hollow-looking, that's what it made them. The blankets just seem to cover up the body and leave nothing but a bump in the sheet behind. So small. So very, very small.

Greg was the only other one in the room. They had been allowed in to see – but Mrs Hudson hadn't been able to bear it. She was a hardy, strong woman, but Sherlock was a son to her. She couldn't bear to see his face like that, all wrong, all broken and small.

But Lestrade, horrified though he was, had not been able to turn away – how could he? No, he had to stay and watch him, for as long as possible. Watch every tiny breath, every twitch. Hear every blip from the god-awful heart monitor, because no matter how much he hated it, that cold, uncaring beeping, it was his lifeline now, and he clung to it.

_Beep, beep, beep._

This could be the last time he saw him. What if it _was_ the last time? What if, when he woke in the morning, this man was just a memory? What if he woke, and they were _both_ gone? What if he had to stand at not one grave, but two?

What if he had to stand by a grave at all?

Neither was dead. But they could be, they could be. It could happen in a split second, he knew, that sudden moment. He wanted, in some way, to be there for it. If anything, he wanted to be with them when they… he couldn't think that last word. He wanted to be there if they… He had, or at least, some part of him felt that he had, to be there for that moment when... When they...

No, He shook himself mid-thought, he couldn't be there for it. Because it wouldn't happen. They would _not_ die. [There it was, he had finally thought it, that word, _die.]_ They _would_ survive, and get through it, of course they would. He knew it. He knew Sherlock – he wouldn't let something as menial and _common_ as a car crash deter him from life. It would be such a wretched way to die. Such an _ordinary_ way to die.

Sherlock was a son to him, in so many ways. John was a friend, and a brilliant one at that, but Sherlock was even more.

He didn't think he would be able to bear it for much longer.

_Beep, beep beep._

He looked down at Sherlock. There were only a few times in his life in which he'd actually had to look _down_ at the detective. Normally Sherlock towered above the world, an unstoppable force of nature. But now he was felled, and so small that Lestrade felt his heart rend itself to pieces at the sight. He could literally hear the pieces falling at his feet, and was confused for a second, until he realised that the throbbing pain in his hand and the sound of splintering glass was owing to the flimsy little water glass he had just shattered between his fingers.

Shattered – that just about summed him up. His heart was stamped into a thousand pieces, over flowing from his eyes, making each tear hurt as if filled with ground glass. And yet, they kept coming. Of course they kept coming, because Greg knew that no matter how painful, those tears wouldn't stop. He didn't want them to. He wanted them to hurt. He brushed the fragments of glass from his hands. Some were now speckled in blood.

John was in another room. He wasn't sure what they were doing with him. Poor, loyal, hardy John. He was always there for anyone, no matter how wrong the time, now matter how busy he was. It didn't matter who he was seeing that night. He was a doctor, after all, being there for the hurt was a natural part of him.

It was the perfect career for him, Greg thought, to help the injured. John was always there for his friends – he had been there for Lestrade, after his wife had finally ended it. His wife had hurled abuse, and marched out on him, leaving him alone. But then John had been there – and Sherlock had been too. John had hugged him, and Sherlock had offered to assassinate her. It was one of the only times in his life that Lestrade had seen Sherlock try and comfort someone, and, believe it or not, it had worked. Greg had laughed at that. Laughter. God it seemed so foreign now.

The beeping once again filled his head, as the thoughts silenced themselves.

_Beep, beep, beep. _He hated it, abhorred it, clung to it. _Beep, beep, beep._

He remembered that night.

He had sat in the living room for a while, too terrified, too stunned to move, to speak. Eventually he had called John. The doctor had been in the middle of a date. But he had come. He had turned up, dishevelled from running three blocks, now girlfriendless. Sherlock had followed a minute or so later (owing to his annoying habit of following John around on every possible occasion, to a degree it almost classified as stalking) and together they had put it right. Sherlock hadn't meant to. He had paced the room, uncomfortable, while John let Lestrade cry on his shoulder. Then he had pulled out his phone and pretended to call Mycroft. Greg smiled.

* * *

_Greg looked up from John's soggy shoulder and watched, as Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, striding over to the window and peering out of it. His awkwardness at the emotions runnign so high suddenly seemed to dissipate, and he held the phone to his ear._

_"Hello, Brother," He said in a deep, dangerous voice, " I don't want to bother you. Just a few minutes of your time will do. Yes, you see, I have a selfish bitch who desperately wants to get violently murdered, and I was wondering if you had anyone spare to, _ahem _," he cleared his throat and brushed a hand over his nose, "do the job?"_

_Lestrade had broken into a smile at that. Sherlock kept his back to them, and paused, as if listening to a reply._

_"Yes, I'm sure that will do. I'll ask, yes."_

_He turned back to Lestrade, "Any particular way in which you'd like her to be murdered?" He had asked with perfect seriousness and calm._

_Lestrade had proceeded to halheartedly scold him for such a suggestion. But it had certainly made him feel, maybe just a tiny bit, better.  
_

* * *

Lestrade had to hand it to Sherlock. He never did feelings.

_Almost_ never.

When he did, those immesurably few times, he hit the nail on the head. Sherlock had never really bothered to be nice to him, and he had grown used to that. But that one time, that one moment, and it had made all the pain, annoyance and shouting worthwhile. All the arguments, all the stress, all the anger from higher-ups. Everything, because Sherlock had cared enough to make him smile.

He sat beside the bed now, wanting to touch the pale figure, but afraid of what might happen if he did. He tentatively brusheded his fingertips over the hand. It was spindly, thin. His hands had always been thin, so thin, but not like this. Now they felt brittle, as if the bones were made of tight-packed powder waiting to disintegrate. Greg held that hand in his own, gingerly. It felt sickly-cold, the sort of cold that's sort of warm at the same time. It made no sense when you put it into words, but it felt as if the inside of Sherlock's hand was boiling hot, and the outside frozen. He felt wrong, just in general.

Greg tried to control himself. If he didn't do something, right now, he knew he would break down and scream. He knew he would cry out loud. He had to do something.

He started to murmur under his breath. His voice was small and breathy. It had no tune. The real tune spun in his head. His voice caught on most of the notes, but he continued anyway. It was a slow song, or at least, he sung it slowly. Whether it was meant to be sung slowly, well, he didn't care.

_"I try and mend the broken pieces"_

The heart monitor beeped away to itself. He couldn't help but realise how apt this song was. It explained him.

_"I try to fight back the tears"_

He stared blankly at the unresponsive face, sunk deep in the pillow, brown curls lank and drooping. God he looked so wrong.

_"They say it's just a state of mind, But it happens to everyone-"_

He choked a little, and tasted salt in his mouth as a couple of tears made their way over his lips. He kept on singing though, under his breath, trying not to let any emotion out. It wouldn't make any difference. He was here, here and now. Sherlock couldn't hear him. No-one could.

_"How it hurts, deep inside"_

His other hand slipped around Sherlock's too, and he held his face against this muddle of digits. Blood from the cuts on his hand squeezed out between them. The song he was singing trailed off. It was too accurate, too painful. He was broken inside, it hurt him, deep inside, and he couldn't sing that. The silence permeated the room, which filled now only with the steady blips.

_Beep, beep, beep._

He couldn't stand the silence. Anything but silence, right now. He hummed along to himself, eyes roving over the detective's face. The cheekbones were starkly outlined, the hair was patchy and ragged. His eyes were sunken. Greg repressed a sob.

_"What is this thing, that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?"_

The detective's chest rose slightly in time with the ragged breathing.

_"Who wants to live forever?"_

And yet, then again, who didn't want life to go one forever? Greg couldn't continue. The words spun through his head.

_Who wants to live, forever?_

Not for themselves, no, not many people would really, truly want immortality for themselves. They'd want life to go on forever for _others_. He did. For Sherlock, for John. It wasn't that he _couldn't_ imagine a world without them, it was that he didn't _want to have to_. He didn't want to face a reality of which they were no longer a part.

_Who dares to love forever?_

Forever, it was such a word. It was such a word, such an impossible word – nothing could go on forever if Sherlock couldn't.

_When love must die._

He lay his head down on the bed. A tube ran across his face from where it was embedded in Sherlock's arm. His right arm was set in a cast. His left was sucked of life. So thin, emaciated, tinged yellow and papery. His skin wasn't right, no, it wasn't right.

_Touch my world with your fingertips_

He stroked the arm quietly, memories flooding his head. Sherlock frowning, bent over a dead body. Sherlock smirking. Sherlock yelling. Sherlock and John, following him around. The three of them in the flat, Sherlock complaining about the lack of interesting cases and John trying to stop him from blowing things up. John holding Greg as he cried about his wife. John and Greg laughing together as Mrs Hudson finally managed to force a pair of antlers onto Sherlock's head, after a few too many drinks on her behalf. Sherlock smirking at a pathetic assumption of Anderson's. John, depressed and defenceless in a Sherlock-less flat. Greg comforting him. That moment had felt like forever.

F_orever is our today._

He wanted to lie there forever.

_Who waits forever anyway?_

* * *

_Lestrade opened his eyes, to find his face pressed into a white sheet. He looked up. The hospital room was quiet. The white of the tiles blared at him for a second. He blinked, and rubbed his eyes, staring at the ceiling. His mind wasn't working well – it never did when he was overly emotional. He couldn't even remember why he was here. _

_Then it all came crashing back to him. He had been sitting by Sherlock, sickly, pale, cold Sherlock. He had fallen asleep singing. Now he had woken, and his mind was spinning. He frowned. There was something not right. A noise, an annoying, irritating noise. Or was it? No, it was a lack of irritating noise._

_[Who wants to live forever?]_

_Lestrade looked at the heart monitor, waiting for the familiar _beep, beep, beep_ that he clung to._

_It didn't come._

_[Who dares to love forever, when love must die?]_

_He looked at the detective. Face pure white, with a hint of blue around the mouth edges. Lestrade felt horror rising in his stomach. He leapt across the bed, placing his hand on Sherlock's face. Cold, god, he was cold. _

_[touch my tears with your lips]_

_There was no beep from the machine, his lifeline. No movement in his chest. His limbs were stiff, frozen, like he had been put on ice. The mass of brown-black curls didn't move, limp. His eyes were open, he was staring at the ceiling. His eyes – those stark eyes, the eyes Lestrade had seen a good man in, they were empty. They held no life. There was no man inside them._

_[Touch my world with your fingertips]_

_The eyes stared ahead. No movement._

_Lestrade's heart was frozen. He felt his throat close over, his head throb, his finger twitch, but he couldn't move._

_Dead, no, Sherlock? _

_He fell forward onto the face, so cold and lifeless, screaming for a nurse._

_[And we can have forever..]_

_The eyes didn't move. Limbs didn't flinch at the contact. Dead, dead, he was dead-  
_

_ "_NO!" screamed Lestrade, jerking up from the bed covers. A brittle hand that had been resting in his fell with a thump to the bed. He stared, wildly. The finger flickered slightly.

_Beep, beep, beep._

He cried out in relief, holding onto Sherlock. He pressed his face into the bandages and plaster across the detective's chest, and cried and cried and cried.

A dream, a dream, god, a dream. His arms rested on his friend's frail broken body, and he shuddered, sobbing into the mattress now. That god-awful beeping filled his ears, and he loved it, cried for it.

_Beep, beep, beep._

_Who wants to live forever?_

_._

* * *

**A couple of Author Notes.  
**

**- I know. Another dream. Sorry.  
**

**- I know that this chapter doesn't explain what the nurse said (See previous chapter, if you don't remember), but that is coming. **

**- A couple of you have mentioned Mycroft. Just wait till next chapter (: I have not forgotten!  
**

**- Huge, HUGE thanks for ****LastSaskatchewanSpacePirate**** who pretty much single-handedly saved this chapter from the murky depths of unreadable fiction. This chapter goes to you. This whole fic may as well go to you.  
**

**- A****nd partly to Greg Lestrade. Been thorugh so much. Deserves so much.  
**

**- Oh, and Freddie Mercury, who sung, '****_Who wants to live forever'_****, and '****_It's a hard life'_****. I listened to them while I was writing it. They seemed to fit. [RIP, Freddie]. **

**- And to Brian May, a genius for words and guitars, who wrote ****_Who wants to live forever_****. Such a beautiful song.**

**- I obviously don't own those songs, and do not profit. Yes, in case you didn't get it, they were the songs Greg sung. **

**- _I DARE YOU_ to listen to '****_who wants to live forever',_**** think of Greg by Sherlock's deathbed, and not feel moved. I DARE YOU. Look it up. It will take about four minutes of your life. It is worth it. At least, I think it is. (: I re-read this chapter while I was listening to it. Aww. It is truly beautiful. The song, that is.  
**

**- I shall have a new, rage and sorrow-filled chapter up soon [sooner than this one was posted]. Be happy! **

**Virtual hugs all round!**

** -JC**


	6. The Caller

**A/N: Feel free to apply your ****_Sherlock was/is a drug addict_**** goggles if you wish, but all subtle references can be interpreted as general Sherlock antics anyway. Snap on the goggles if you are of such a mind. I'm not, but to each their own. :P this also applies to the next chapter (which was originally part of this one, but made it too long, so I split it into two.)**

* * *

Greg wandered out of the room, and vaguely wondered why people were averting their eyes from him. As he made his way down the corridor, all those around him shied closer to the white walls, avoiding eye contact, as if, when he passed them some field of… something… pushed them away. A field of fear? He shook himself. _Don't be absurd. They're just tired, and scared, because they're in a hospital, and they've probably got friends in trouble too._

He smiled tiredly at an old couple, but they just bundled themselves deeper into their coats and scurried off in the opposite direction, muttering something about an elevator and glancing back at him with furtive looks. His eyebrows contracted. He looked at their rapidly retreating forms, and recalled their expressions – frosty and frightened. Now that had certainly been directed at him in particular, rather than the hospital in general, which had been his original assumption. Were they all frightened of him? And (if so), why?

He shrugged, and continued down the corridor. Nowhere to go. Sherlock was back in surgery, for god knows what, and he still wasn't allowed to see John. The nurse ('his' nurse, as he had come to think of her) had told him and Mrs Hudson (amongst the questions as to their next of kin and organ donation possibilities) that neither was doing too well. Though Sherlock had certainly sustained the worst of the injuries, John's situation was, in no small way, just as bad.

He could see Mrs Hudson's face now, swimming in his mind's eye. Devastated, of course she was. They were her boys; she had looked after them, cleaned up after them, cried for them and stuck up for them for all these years. There was nothing either of them could do about it, and he knew that it was this that hurt the most. They had followed for those years, they had helped and hurt and comforted, and now all they could do was stand by and watch. Watch them slowly fade and die.

Die, they could die. He pictured his last image of Sherlock. A wasted bag of bones. Sickly and clammy to the touch. If he died now, that would be the last time Lestrade ever saw him, that would be his last image of his friend, a wasted, warm corpse. It brought meaning to phrase 'death warmed up' that Lestrade had never fully appreciated before. Now he understood it all too well.

He stopped outside John's door. For a moment he was tempted to enter, although he knew he was not allowed – hell, what did that matter? John was his friend – he had a right. But he didn't enter, he just stood, looking at the door. It was plain and white, with a scuffed doorhandle, covered with a thousand fingerprints, the fingerprints of all the people who had previously entered the room. Those thousands of people who had been allowed to enter where he was not.

He'd never envied anyone's fingerprints before.

He ran a hand over the doorknob, feeling the cool metal beneath his fingertips. His fingers itched to close around it, wrench it open, if just to confirm that the man behind it was there. His fingers tightened. It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just to check that John was still there. Just to check.

"Hey," came a voice from behind him, "There you are. I've been looking for you."

Greg jerked away from the door in shock, turning to see Sergeant Donovan standing behind him, attempting to strike a neutral pose, but too flustered to do so. She looked bedraggled and unkempt, as if she had just run a great distance, which seemed to be the case. Greg tried to smile, but found that it didn't quite work. His lips didn't want to do what he told them to, and the grin just sagged. He abandoned the smile in favour of a neutral face, but that didn't quite work either.

"What happened to your face?" Sally asked in surprise, ignoring his attempt and nonchalance, and Greg's hand immediately shot up to touch his forehead.

"Huh?" he asked in confusion. Sally traced a pattern on his brow.

"You've got some… scratches." She said quietly, and fished out a pocket mirror. Some face powder billowed in a drift, and Lestrade waved it away, so that he could peer into the mirror's depths.

"Where?" Greg asked, peering at his hairline, "Oh, I see - Shit, what the hell?"

"Have you been clawing your face?" Donovan stared at him. Greg rubbed his forehead. About four centimetres long, the three parallel scratches extended from hairline to a spot just a little above his right eyebrow.

So that's why people had been staring. He didn't remember doing that – but somehow it didn't surprise him. _Marks of a madman_, he thought dryly. The thin scars made him look wild and desperate. Probably because I am, he thought.

"Apparently," Lestrade said quietly in reply. Sally for once had the tact not to question him. She slipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out his phone.

"You left it in the office, and I thought you should have it. You had it on silent, so no-one heard it." She said apologetically, "Oh, and Anderson says sorry, but he's not coming in today. Gregson says something about you owing him a movie ticket. But then I told him what happened and he said forget it." She ticked off the list on her fingertips, "Dimmock said he'd help out while you're here. But said not to push it past a week. He says his incredibly sorry, and will drop around in his next spare moment. Okay, I think that's it. Oh, and I got a call from the freak's brother apparently, I don't know, says you weren't answering your phone. It was on silent," She repeated, in case he'd missed it the first time.

She chewed her lip, and glanced up the corridor. Greg swore under his breath_._

"How's the freak?" Donovan asked. Lestrade glared at her, and she blushed under his gaze.

"Don't call him that. And he's bad. Worse than bad." Greg sighed, "Any chance of a coffee round here?"

Sally shrugged slightly guiltily, and glanced back down the corridor, "I think there was a machine down the end there – would like me to…?"

"You're a life-saver." Greg said, with feeling. Sally nodded and headed back down the corridor to find the machine Greg scrolled through the list of missed calls. He blanched. There looked to be hundreds. He frowned.

_You have missed 42 calls from _Mycroft Holmes_ who did not leave a message. This message has been provided to you at no extra cost._

_You have missed 8 calls from _Molly Hooper_ who left the following message:_

Greg clicked on the message, and held to phone to his ear. Molly's voice rang out frantically.

_"Oh my god , Greg, are they alright? Is Sherlock alright? I'm catching the next plane home please call me back as soon as you can. Oh my g– please, just call me back." _

There was a small sob at the other end, and then a soft click, as she hung up. Greg felt numb. Poor Molly must have found out. He didn't envy her position – terrified though he was, he knew it would be worse on Molly. Poor girl would probably be beside herself. He should probably call her. It would be a good idea. Just as soon as he had checked the rest of the folder.

_You have missed 1 call from _Sherlock Holmes_ who left the following message:_

_"It's the sister. Trust me. I'll get a cab and we'll meet you at the station. Answer your blasted phone next time, alright? Next time it might actually be an emergency. I'll ring your work phone. You should really keep your phone _off _silent." _

Greg sat back, motionless and momentarily stunned, a heavy sinking sensation permeating his stomach. He hadn't answered Sherlock's call on _his_ phone, he had answered it on the _station's_ phone. Sherlock must have tried his number first. But his phone had been on silent, so he hadn't heard it.

It wasn't so much of a big deal, now that he thought about it. If he had answered Sherlock's first call (on his mobile), it would have made no conceivable difference to the outcome, _this_ outcome. No, it would have made no difference.

But he could _hear_ the detective's voice. Actually, physically, hear it. In a daze, he repeated the message. The deep tones rang in his ear, and his consciousness clutched at them, his mind's eye imagining that pale mouth shaping the words, the spidery hand holding the phone – the look of exasperation on the angular face. He could see the scene now, the detective talking, alive and well. He replayed the message, seeing the vision of his friend move in time to the slightly tinny voice in his ear.

He put down the phone, the image still lurking in his mind, beyond the confines of the message. He could see the detective redialling. After a little fishing around in his 'mind palace' (a technique that a surprisingly compliant Sherlock had taught him four summers previously) he found a fairly accurate transcript of the conversation he had had with Sherlock. He ran it through in his head, matching the muddled words with the movements of the mouth. He could see John next to him, annoyed and exasperated. He heard Sherlock yell at the cabbie, saw a faceless man shake his head in response. But he knew what would happen next. He could almost hear the screech and crash, hear the screams… He opened his eyes, staring at the blank white wall.

_We'll get a cab and meet you at the station…_

Sally Donovan returned with a steaming cup of coffee, to find the Detective Inspector curled up in a tight ball, crying over his phone.

* * *

He felt, in a kind of abstract way, grateful to her. Sally had never been much of a one for comforting – at most she was able to comfort frightened children, but only if absolutely necessary. He had apologised profusely for embarrassing her, but she brushed it off casually, and she and 'his' nurse managed to find a spare bed in which he could recover. Sally left, after purloining Greg's house keys, and returned minutes later with some of his clothes and pyjamas. They were the ones his wife had bought him. He hadn't worn them since she left, but he felt no need to tell Sally that. Instead he thanked her quietly, and put them on with only the slightest flutter. The fact that his wife was gone didn't hurt as much now. It was, he thought wryly, much like breaking your arm to distract yourself from the pain of an infected splinter.

Sally was now talking quietly with the nurse, without realising that Greg was actually able to hear. She was convinced that he was asleep, but Greg could not let himself sleep, for fear of the dreams. He couldn't bear to see them again - dead, or undead, or any other incarnation his delirious mind could pull from its depths. His head was still filled with a flickering picture: Sherlock dead, shifting to Sherlock lying, half-breathing, with bones broken and limbs torn. The white of the bed sheet flickered blood red, then back to white. Blue-tinged, deathly and emaciated features flicked to blood-swollen, lacerated and broken. His thin chest – unmoving switched to shattered.

He was unable to decide which was the more horrible.

"How bad is it?" Came Sally's whispered voice from outside.

"No idea. Seriously bad, is all I can say. Unfortunately it's highly likely to be fatal. This isn't just a crash, Sergeant, it's a massacre. It's a miracle that they're alive at all. It's a miracle that there was anything left of them to pull from the wreck."

Greg bit his lip to prevent himself from whimpering, but some sound must have reached the females outside, and the voices paused.

"What about the doctor?" Asked Sally in a whisper, and the voices turned away, swiftly moving topics in an undertone.

Greg wrapped his hands around his head. He felt like a child, a little, lost and frightened child suddenly flung in to a world of adult troubles. It was a horrible realisation, and he had to forcibly restrain himself from chewing on his fingernails, or biting his fist. It was a rarely surfacing habit, that confined itself to moments of extreme, devastating mental stress. It pissed him off no end.

Temptation gave way, and he chewed on the tip of his thumb. His other hand was searching under the bedclothes for his phone, fingers tapping their way blindly along the mattress until the tips encountered the cool plastic. He pulled it out and looked at it blearily. He had had another call from Mycroft. How had he missed that?Of course – his phone was still on silent. He didn't have the strength to make a call. Physically he was drained; emotionally and mentally, he was wired. His sluggish fingers pressed the centre button, and Sherlock's message played out in his ear. God, that voice, it was here, in his head. He might never hear that voice again, this recorded message could easily be the last. His fingers flicked through the voicemail folder. There wasn't much.

He rarely missed calls, he was too paranoid. Partly paranoid about cases. But, and he could admit this now to himself, mostly paranoid about Sherlock. He had felt this pain before, felt the terror and the blind confusion that had come from the fall of the immovable, the collapse of the indestructible. He had felt the pain, and when he had been relieved from it – in that one moment of shock and joy and disbelief, he had vowed to himself, privately but irrevocably, that if Sherlock ever needed him, then he would be there.

The chance had never arisen of its own accord. Sherlock liked to think that he needed no one. Lestrade had to guess, and thankfully, his guesses were often right. He could almost intuitively sense 'Baker Street Quarrels' and was always waiting in the wings in case it became something worse. It was his branch of deduction, and though it didn't bring him a career or money, it brought him piece of mind, which was often just as good. He had promised never to let Sherlock down, for all their sakes.

Had he broken that vow?

In any case, because of this paranoia there were only a handful of missed calls from which he could select. _John, John, come on, there must be one from John._ There were a couple dated after Sherlock had jump-[_no don't think about it it'll just make it worse think about John, John]_ but Greg couldn't bring himself to listen to them. John sounded too hurt, too heartbroken, and right now that was the last thing he needed. He needed to hear John normal – good old, plain and simple, straightforward John. Anything at all? Anything John-related? Oh, come one, there had to be _something._

He finally alighted upon an older voicemail, a plain note from John to the effect that he and Sherlock weren't having a Christmas party, but would Greg like to come anyway? They had made it into a little party themselves, and once Molly had dropped by it had turned into a full-on celebration, with Sherlock sitting on the sofa refusing to drink or join in. Greg secretly harboured the suspicion that he had in fact enjoyed himself.

John had gotten slightly drunk, despite his incredible alcohol tolerance, and had joined a champagne-clogged Mrs Hudson in haphazardly decorating the flat. The tinsel was alright when placed on the mantel piece, a little worse for wear when hung tantalisingly over the experiments that littered the table no matter the season or holiday, but downright dangerous when the two of them had struck up the courage to wrap them around a still sober and disgruntled Sherlock. What had followed had not been pretty.

"_…a strict no-no. Yeah, so, if you want to come your more than welcome. That's my way of saying," _the voice paused, as John struggled to unlock the door, "_that I'd really like you to come. Oh for god's – Sherlock! Get down here and open the door! Anyway, you can come whenever you want. Don't bother bringing anything, unless you desperately want to. I think Molly might be coming as well. Oh, and avoid mentioning anything Christmas related to Sherlock. Yeah. Okay, see you tonight. Maybe."_

The tone sounded in his ear, and he repeated the message, the numbness in his fingers beginning to creep it's way into his subconscious. John's voice, crackly and indistinct, but still obviously John. That was what Greg needed, distinctly John. The beginning of the long message played out in his ear. (He'd have to remind John to leave shorter messages.) He unthinkingly filed it away in his head.

_[Mental note: remind John not to leave long voicemails]_

Then he realised what he'd done, and shuddered. He quickly scrubbed that note out.

"_Hey Greg, listen, I know it's short notice, but tonight we're having- okay, no, we're _not _having a Christmas get-together. Would you like to come? Sherlock's in a bit of a mood, and Christmas cheer probably isn't what he needs right now, but who cares. Baker Street, tonight, open invitation. Bring drinks, if you feel like it, nothing formal, and no presents. That was a strict no-no. Yeah, so, if you want you come, your more than welcome…"_

Greg giggled quietly to himself. No presents. Now that hadn't worked out. He absolutely loved giving Christmas presents, but didn't have many people to buy them for. That meant a little present on all of his fellow yarder's desks, and extra special presents for his friends. Sherlock had gotten a hand-carved box of oak, which he had proceeded to blow up. Greg had also gotten him a cheap phone cover, which he still used to this day.

_[Metal note: Get Sherlock a decent phone cover]_

Greg was now on his fourth listening, John's slightly scratchy tones filling his head, when a double pair of footsteps became clear to him. He snapped his phone shut in a fluid movement, and shoved it down his trousers.

"Greg? Are you asleep?"

"Am I likely to answer if I was?" he mumbled, earning a slight snicker

"Just thought we'd let you know, you'll be able to see the doct- you'll be able to see John in a couple of hours. The operation went fairly well, apparently."

Greg felt a bubble of hope drift up his spine.

"Do you need anything?" continued Sally. Greg grunted noncommittally, and the two females closed the door behind him.

"_He's taken it all really badly, hasn't he?"_ the nurse whispered audibly. Sally affirmed this with a quick word and sigh.

_Taken it badly?_ Greg thought angrily, _how else can I take it?_


	7. The Protectors

One and a half hours into the two hour wait for permission to see John, Mycroft finally made his appearance. Greg heard the click of the heels, and recognised the clack of fairly formal shoes. A doctor, perhaps? They had said they'd keep him updated, so a doctor made sense. He didn't know the sound of a doctor's footstep on demand, and so wasn't able to make the connection between the disdainful clicks and the even more disdainful elder Holmes.

"I don't think he particularly wants to see you, _sir._" Sally said in a frosty voice. Greg ignored it, vaguely wondering who she could be speaking to. Probably one of the nurses. Maybe one of the doctors. What could they do? He didn't want to see them. They couldn't do anything.

What if they had news? He bolted upright – who was Sally chasing away? Good god, he thought, was she mad enough to send away one of the doctors? Surely not.

No, she wouldn't. He searched around his head to find her exact words.

_"I'll get the doctor to see you if they tell me anything. You just rest. I can't have you-"_

His flashback was rudely interrupted by the creak and rustle of an opening door, and not-so-hushed berating from Sally. Whoever her berating was directed at was evidently 'not one to be trifled with', and they brushed her arguments aside with consummate ease. Greg pushed back the blanket. His legs swung over the side of the bed, and he let his dangling feet brush against the cool linoleum. His fists flexed. He knew who it was.

"You've got a nerve." He said, "You've got a bloody nerve."

Mycroft used his umbrella to close the door behind him, and perched crisply on the second bed, behind Greg. The mattress squeaked at he settled his weight on it.

"I heard the news two days ago," His grey voice intoned, "I was reassured of their survival, but… _events_… slowed my return."

"By events," Lestrade said without turning, "You mean politics." His disgust at the thought radiated through his words.

Mycroft's voice softened, "Yes." He said, placing his umbrella across his lap, "Ashamed though I am to admit it, I-"

"Ashamed?" Greg's head rose from his chest, "Ashamed? Is that the best you can do?"

Mycroft was silent. He had no argument, for once in his life. Lestrade's voice cracked, a wet, choked crack.

"You were supposed to protect him," He said, "You promised – you promised me, you promised John, Jesus-" He broke off and stood. He still couldn't bring himself to look at the elder Holmes, feeling a combination of revolt and guilt worming its way up his throat. Two days, two bloody days, without so much as a whisper of his presence, now here he was. And what was his excuse? _Politics._

"I could not have foreseen - Nothing I could have done would -"

"No, _you were supposed to protect him!_" Lestrade said in a sudden furore, rounding on the politician, "You said we could trust you, you said you would help him and now, here he is, dying in a hospital bed – do you not understand? He's _your_ brother!" Lestrade pointed an accusing finger at the man on the bed, rational thought gone, replaced by the ultimate irrational – anger. He glared at Mycroft, and continued in a dangerously low voice.

"Who helped pull them from the wreck? His brother? No, _me._ Who sat and cried by their bedsides? Let me think – oh yes, _me._ In fact," His voice broke as he advanced on Mycroft, "I don't remember you there at all. Two days – two _fucking days –_ all I got was a couple of phone calls," he brandished his phone at the silent man, "You didn't even try that hard. Did you call the hospital? Bet you didn't. Well? Huh?"

"Yes, in fact I did-"

"To check up on your _investments_? Or maybe to check on your _burdens? _ Hoping to lighten the load, were you?"

"It was to inquire on the health of my brother. " Expressions clouded Mycroft's normally passive face, in an unnatural rush that left him red and shaky. He pursed his lips and his brows contracted. Greg continued in his tirade, ignoring Mycroft's attempted interventions with the ease that came with desperate fury.

"Your _brother_, as far as I know is doing perfectly fine without you. If you-" Lestrade broke off, holding his face in his hands, "God, you don't even care do you? Look at you," He took a step back, and gestured to the stiff figure on the bed, voice rising to a scream, "_look at you! _I see a stupid, bloody politician, not a brother, not a _protector. _You _promised! _You have the nerve, the nerve, the goddam nerve to sit there, calmly, talk about your _politics_," He spat it like an insult, and Mycroft flinched involuntarily, "Your own brother, two fucking days, and if you even try and justify yourself, I swear, policeman or not, Government or not," He took a hold of Mycroft's thick tie and shook it. "I will get your arrogant pointless, smartass tie and shove it down your arrogant, pointless and smartass throat!"

That said, he flopped back onto the bed. Mycroft rubbed his neck lightly where the fabric had cut in, but otherwise, made no move. There wasn't even a creak from the bedsprings below him. Greg felt tears sneak out of the corner of his eyes. The anger was still there. If possible, even more so. Mycroft didn't even have the guts to say something. He just sat there, stale and primly sad.

"You know what hurts most?" Greg said quietly, "You didn't even try."

There was an awkward shuffle behind him.

"You have the British government at your fingertips, and yet you can't manage to get someone to contact me."

He shook his head.

"No, that isn't what hurts most." He said, taking back that statement with contempt in his voice, "You know what does hurt most? You really want to know? Oh god, who am I kidding," He sniffed, "Of course you don't. you don't care, you _never cared, did you?_ You never cared, and never will care, never enough to help him. You'd abandon him without a second thought, wouldn't you? He's just an investment, a stupid promise to keep, isn't he? Does he mean that little? To abandon him-"

"I have never, _never_ abandoned him!" Mycroft snapped. Lestrade whipped around on the bed.

"Never. _Never?_" He shrieked in incredulity, "Are you conveniently forgetting a certain rooftop? A certain newspaper? A certain _master criminal?_ A certain brother _you abandoned _-"

"That wasn't abandonment – I was there, always there-"

"No, _I_ was always there." Lestrade replied, "You helped him pay his rent, you, uh, let me think, stopped a couple of assassins, from the safety of your little office – Who took a bullet for him? Me. Who trusted him against all evidence, who looked after him when you couldn't, who was there when you weren't, huh? Me, John, Molly - not you. Who helped him with his _heart?_ Me, and John, not you. I don't care how many criminal organisations you've toppled, that doesn't matter. You think it does, because they're not lives to you, are they? They're just statistics, and you don't care. Your brother is not a statistic, he won't become a statistic, not while I'm breathing, you worthless piece of _shit_. He will _never be a statistic, do you understand? Never!_"

Mycroft look overwhelmed for a moment, then anger slowly began to creep across his face in a tinted blush.

"I've been there for my brother all his life," he said quietly, "All my life, I've been watching out for him. He thinks he doesn't need protection and-"

"He doesn't need protection, not the kind you give him. He doesn't need protection from criminal organisations and assassins, not as much as he needs help with himself. You can never give it to him, because you're cold and lifeless, and care more about politics than people's lives."

"What have I done to deserve this?"

"It's what you haven't done that I'm more concerned about." Lestrade said coldly. Mycroft returned the frosty glare.

The two sat still for what felt like hours. Both angry, both frozen in a silent battle of wills.

"_Sherlock is not a statistic," _Lestrade hissed, "_John is not a statistic. Human lives are not numbers."_

Mycroft's eyes bored into his. His eyes narrowed, and the corner of his mouth flickered.

"You didn't answer his call." He said simply. That was all he needed to say.

Lestrade blinked, and sat back, "What did you say?"

"You heard me," Mycroft said quietly, "You didn't answer Sherlock's call, did you?"

Mycroft had hit the nail on the head. It drove into Lestrade's heart, bringing horrible hot pain with it. He hadn't answered Sherlock's call, though he had promised himself he would never let him down. How Mycroft knew it, Lestrade didn't know. But it was so painfully familiar, that sudden outburst of undeniable truth, it sent a jab through his already tender mind.

"You didn't answer his call, and it hurts you, because it could have been worse. Because he could have depended on that call, and you wouldn't have gotten there in time. It hurts you."

"Don't deduce things, Mycroft, that was Sherlock's job."

"Was?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Lestrade went pale, and he leapt to his feet, "Is his job. It is his job, it _is _his job_. Don't talk about him like he's dead!"_ He screamed.

"I didn't." Mycroft said calmly. Lestrade rounded on him. Stupid smartass face with that stupid smartass tie and his stupid smartass smile and his stupid smartass umbrella-

"Get out." Lestrade hissed, "Go home, go back to your precious politics. I don't need you, and your brother doesn't need you. You care more about passing bills than your own brother's life. Fine, I don't care. Get out."

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, a further accusation springing to his lips.

Then he thought better of it, and picked up his umbrella, before striding purposefully out of the room.

"_What's up?" _Came 'his' nurse's voice.

"Nothing," Mycroft said snappishly, "the Inspector's chosen a scapegoat, that's all."

"And fuck you to!" Greg yelled at the brother.

There was a pause, during which Greg could hear the footsteps retreating down the hall. He rubbed his head, and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

"Are you okay?" Asked his nurse. She had pulled the door open quietly, and now stood just behind him. He gave her a tired smile, and she knelt down to wipe the cuts on his forehead with antiseptic, where he had reopened the scratches. He gentle ministering hands were soothing on his hot brow.

"Just some 'brotherly' love," he said with a sigh, and the nurse smiled.

"Well, I think you were right," she said in a low voice, "Your sergeant has been telling me a bit more about it all, and I must say, that Mycroft sounds like a nasty piece of work."

Greg shook his head, and winced at the sting of the antiseptic, "No, he's not really that bad. He just has no heart."

"None at all?" the nurse wheedled.

"Well, maybe a little." Greg conceded. He thought about it for a bit.

_[Mental note: apologise to Mycroft]_

The nurse glanced at her watch, and stood up, "well, he told us to watch you like a hawk. Specifically told us that you weren't in an able state of mind. You can see your other friend in a minute," she called over her shoulder.

Greg growled softly to himself. _Not in an able state of mind?_

_[Mental note: **Don't** apologise to Mycroft__]_

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hello everyone! Happy December! Well, I'm ultra-happy, because there is no more school for another six weeks! Yippee! You know what that means, right? Yup, more writing! Rejoice!**

**We have run out of internet (damn it), but I managed to sneak into the wi-fi at work, so that I can post this. This is my absolutely horrible excuse for the amount of time this chapter took. However, it is true. Please, believe me that I am really sorry. **

**I promise the next chapter will be up as soon as our internet is reset, or rejigged, or whatever needs to be done to allow us to access it. I promise promise promise. It will hopefully be before Christmas. It is really likely to be before Christmas.**

**Please leave a review! They bring welcome colour to normally grey days. **

**-JC**


	8. The Masochist

**Hello. The delay is inexcusable. I'm sorry. I can offer no excuse. Please forgive me.**

**This mentions Sherlock having migraines. It ****_isn't_**** part of my little SH headcannon, it's just a random that popped up and I liked. Just so you know.  
**

**HAPPY NEW YEAR! And please, please review. Love you all! All my precious reviewers, my amazing followers, those brilliant Favouriters. I love you all. You give me purpose.**

**(Oh my god I have OVER 100 FOLLOWERS I think I'll just cry myself to sleep with happiness…)**

**-JC**

.

* * *

John sat next to Greg, beside Sherlock's bed, hand on his shoulder. His expression was torn with grief. Greg hardly noticed him. John stayed with him a lot these days. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go. He was unconscious and dying. He had time to spare.

Molly had called. Her flight had been cancelled, and she was desperate for updates. He had told her the best of it - that they weren't dead. That was the only positive he could draw from the situation. They weren't dead yet. Yet, yet, yet, they weren't dead _yet_.

Lestrade found himself talking to John, again. He had to physically shake himself, reminding himself that the doctor wasn't real, wasn't sitting next to him. Greg just wanted him to be there.

"Go away," he muttered, trying not to glance in John's direction. Of course, it didn't work. His delirious, sleep deprived imagination seemed to be purposely working overtime in its undying quest to remind him as often as possible that he could lose his two best friends. He wasn't entirely sure - but he supposed this, to some extent, made him mentally masochistic.

He hadn't slept much in the time he had been here. It had been, what, two weeks? About two weeks, yes. In that time he had been allowed to see John once, for about five minutes. It hadn't been long enough, and now not only his dreams, but his delirious waking moments were filled with images of them, and especially John. He needed to see both of them, and fevered hallucinations were the only images of John he had to cling to. Whenever he slept, he was back at the car, rummaging through the wreckage and encountering their bodies. Or he was standing by their beds, in silence. The silence that meant they were dead.

When he was awake, they followed him around. Sometimes he thought he could see them, sitting down opposite him, arguing in a corner. A couple of times he was just so out of it he started up a real conversation with them, only to be interrupted by a highly embarrassed Sally. She had insisted he sleep after that, and had eventually had his nurse give him something to help him.

It reminded him of that night he had gone into shock, after having a nightmare about being shot. He hadn't slept for days afterwards, and John had come around and made him sleep. Like the good little doctor, he had given him a magic medicine to make it go away.

Everything reminded him of them. There wasn't a single part of his bloody life that they hadn't touched, that didn't hurt now. They were everywhere, had snuck in uninvited. He had let them in, like a stray dog scratching on his front door, and they had made a home in his life. He was glad that they had – a lot of the time either Sherlock's antics or John's solidity kept his life real.

He had thought that his wife was his grounding rod, the thing that kept him down. But she was gone, and he had stayed down. Now he finally realised what that grounding rod had actually been – it had been the Detective and his Blogger, the two most unlikely friends, two totally different people who had grown to be so…

And he, the most unlikely receiver of the friendship of the one that professed to friendless.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep and Greg turned his musings towards him. He looked a little better. He wasn't so yellow, nor so fragile. But he looked so far from well that the minor improvements brought little comfort. He had not woken. He could not survive without the oxygen, or the drip feed, or the supply of blood – hell, as far as the Detective was concerned, he was all transport. There was no life in him, just automatic functions.

Greg wondered if Sherlock was dreaming. He wondered if he was aware of anything other than pain.

Then he wondered what would happen if he stopped, if his mind, that quick and brilliant mind stopped. Like in books – when they're being kept alive only physically. Brain dead, or, something like that. He wondered if he'd have the courage to switch him off. He didn't think so.

In his mind's eye, the scene played out. His nurse would be the one to tell him, of course she would. Sally would be there, telling him there was nothing to do, telling him to do it, to let him go, let him die. John would be there – he liked to think that John _could_ be there. He imagined John putting an arm around his shoulder, imagined both their voices saying it at once, sealing his fate and switching him off. "_Do it,"_ they would say together, and the chest would stop rising and the blood would stop flowing and they would have made a choice. It played out in his head, over and over, like an old record.

God, he was a masochist.

* * *

Sally stood by the door to the freak's room. She could see Lestrade next to him again – he was rarely anywhere else. John was still off limits, apparently. She didn't know why.

She was watching the freak's face. He had always been so aloof of them all, hadn't he? Always thought that he was above everything. He had been delusional, she thought, no-one's immortal. No-one can do all that, all things that he professed to have done, and yet still survive and thrive. She hadn't believed in him like Greg had – had she believed in him at all? No, not really. Not now that she thought about it.

Did she feel sad? Yes, yes, she supposed that she did. It wasn't heartbreaking devastation like Lestrade, more a sense of loss. Especially for John. Though she thought he was a complete idiot for hanging around with Sherlock, she had nothing against him personally. In fact, she quite liked him. He was dependable, straightforward. She felt like, if it hadn't been for the freak, she could have gotten on with him quite well.

Maybe not. Because if it weren't for the freak, they never would have met, right?

Anderson was in shock. She had been dwelling on this fact lately. Alright, it wasn't actually _shock_. It was just a state of… good god, she didn't know what to call it. A state of horror? The scene at the crash had really disturbed him, and she was supremely glad that it hadn't been her. And if this was the result, she could only imagine the cause. She didn't _want_ to imagine the cause. However much she hated Sherlock – she wouldn't wish that crash on her worst enemy.

He _was_ her worst enemy. And she, seeing it like this, didn't wish it on him.

She turned away from the door at the sounds of footsteps. The nurse was walking towards her. That nurse was always here, and Sally wondered why…

Sally gave her a tight smile, and the woman stopped by the door. She stood next to her as if they were friends – though Sally supposed they were, of a kind. United by a common cause. They were both looking in at the hunched figure, noting the shaking shoulders, the hand that clutched at his hair, ready to rip it out – he looked like a madman.

The nurse sighed, and turned to Sally, handing her a phone. Sally looked at it in confusion. It wasn't hers.

"It's his," she said quietly. For a moment Sally thought she meant Lestrade's. But then the phone was handed to her with an explanation.

"It's Mr Holmes'. It's being texted a lot, I thought you, or he, Greg should – " The nurse trailed off, and shrugged, and shoved the phone at her, "Just take it."

Sally looked at the phone in wonder. How the hell had that survived the crash?

But the nurse was already walking back down the corridor purposefully, and Sally could only watch as she entered the lift. The woman smiled and gave her a little wave as the doors closed in front of her. The sergeant was left standing, questions lurking on her lips. _Damn_, she thought to herself.

She sighed and sat down. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked as she tapped the screen. Then, with another sigh, she slid the unlock button to the right. She fully expected to have to guess the freak's password – god knows what he'd use as a _password_ – but was relieved when instead it opened to a home screen. She looked at the contents. Small amount of music, mostly violin. Messages – forty or so of them. She was hesitant to read private messages.

She instead clicked on the photos section. Not very many. A couple of men who looked highly shifty. Another of one of the shifty men wielding a gun. One of Moriarty. Why that was there, Sally didn't know.

Then she frowned. The very first photo on the reel was busy with faces. Sherlock in the centre, looking seriously angry. John was next to him, attempting to jam a Christmas hat on his head. She recognised a mop of grey hair hanging over the picture, and wild eyes creased in a smile. Greg was obviously taking the photo.

She felt a smile tug at the corner of her lips.

She flicked through the notes section, but it was mostly incomprehensible notes about chemical formulae and paper types.

She took a deep breath and clicked on the message icon.

Eight unread texts from John.

_Sherlock, are you ignoring me again? Mycroft called me, said you were ignoring his texts too. I told him to sod off, by the way. Sticking his nose everywhere. Can you please answer me?  
_

_Stop ignoring my texts. I need to know what's happening._

_I'm going to the pharmacist. Need anything? More headache tablets? I know you don't want another migraine on a case, so I'll get extra strength._

_Reply to your texts you bastard._

_And get that hand out of the fridge. I know you've put it back in. Take it out. You've already established his guilt._

_FOR GOD'S SAKE ARE YOU DEAF?_

_I'll ring you up soon. If you don't answer that, I'm calling Lestrade, and he's going to check up on you. ANSWER YOUR TEXTS._

_If you keep ignoring my texts, and I find out there is nothing wrong with you, I WILL tell all the Yarders about Irene Adler. THAT IS A THREAT._

_There'd better be something wrong with you._

_Got another migraine shut up and stop texting - SH_

Sally felt guilty for a second. She didn't know he had migraines. There was a lot she didn't know about him. Who was Irene Adler? Why was she such a threat?

She shouldn't be reading this stuff, but she was curious. One text from Mycroft.

_Stop sending me cakes. It is extremely childish._

And thirty-seven texts from Lestrade. Sally gulped, and scrolled past that section. Perhaps she might glance at it later.

Wait – she caught herself – what the hell was she doing? Riffling through his phone as if she owned it. It was just ethically wrong. She could at least wait until he was dead so she could read without-

God, did she really just think that? Did she _want_ him dead? No, no, she didn't. So she should just put down the phone. She should give it to Greg. She should throw the damn thing away.

There was a buzz, as it lit up.

**1 new message from _Lestrade_**

She automatically clicked the 'read' button.

_Wake up you moron._

Sally felt unexpectedly sad. She glanced back around at the DI, sitting morosely beside the dying detective. He was singing softly under his breath. Sally couldn't make out the words. Greg was so cut up about it… well, it was to be expected. They were – she had to admit it – friends. It was something she was loathe to admit. Despite his attitude, his ignorance of anything remotely social – despite everything she had ever said, he _did_ have friends. Good ones to.

In fact, if it weren't for her friendship with Lestrade, she'd say that she almost envied him. She considered herself friends with Greg, but then, the majority of people did. She liked to think that they had a special friendship. But they didn't. She didn't really have great friends. She wished she did.

And now she was envious of Sherlock Holmes. God, what and ironic world it was.

Another buzz.

**1 new message from _Lestrade_**

_Who wants to live for FUCKING EVER?_

Sally bit back her words, and began typing.

* * *

Greg put down his phone. What was he doing? God, he didn't even know where Sherlock's phone was. He didn't know – and Sherlock was in no condition to tell him. The phone had probably been crushed in the accident.

He stood and moved to the window. He tapped the hard phone cover against the windowsill, humming softly under his breath. That damned song had been stuck in his head for the past two weeks. _Who wants to live for goddam ever?_ He thought angrily, wiping his eyes. His breath began to quicken, and he tried to calm himself.

Sherlock's even breathing lulled him in a semi-trance, automatically synchronising his breaths with the detectives. God he was so tired -

[no he masn't sleep, if he slept they would be back to haunt him he _musn't sleep-]_

His eyes slipped closed.

_"Jesus Greg, I think he's choking- I can't, I can't- SHERLOCK!"_

_John's face was twisted, pleading, dead and rotten, screaming and reaching and writhing in blood. _

_"Sherlock!"_

Lestrade yelped and jerked awake. His legs buckled beneath him and he stumbled. For a moment he could still see the gaping figure, feel the outstretched arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders –

But that was just his nurse, stopping him from falling.

"_John-_" he whispered, before he could stop himself. His nurse watched him warily, and he smiled, thanking her in his expression.

Emma, her name was. He remembered her name, Emma. It was a nice name. He fingered through his rough mind palace and chanced upon the meaning. He had memorised meanings for names back when his wife and he had tried for a child. Tried and failed, but he couldn't dwell on that now. Emma had been high on his list. It meant 'healer of the universe'.

Then again, that same site had listed the name 'Sherlock' as meaning fair-haired. He would take their meanings with a grain of salt.

He turned back to the window, and Emma turned back to the bed, straightening the sheets and checking the myriad of tubes than ran along the bed, into his arms or chest, or wherever they had been put. She leant over, obscuring Greg's view of the detective.

His phone buzzed, and he looked down.

God, he had never before given any thought to the phrase 'his heart stopped', but now he realised it was indeed physically possible. There was a pause, and his heart beat away again, in an accelerated thunking rhythm.

**1 new text from _Sherlock Holmes_**

He whipped around to look at the bed. Emma was still in his way, and he leapt forward. But then his nurse moved, and the detective was still lifeless as ever. Lestrade gave a sob and stumbled, looking up to the door.

Sally stood there, with moist eyes, holding Sherlock's phone in her hand.

_Let him go,_ read the text, and her face.

A picture as well. Sherlock frowning on Christmas, with Greg and John surrounding the camera shot, smiling. He remembered it. He felt like crying.

_Who waits forever anyway…_

He could never let him go.

* * *

"I don't care. You are coming with me, and eating something. Then you are going back upstairs, and you are sleeping. Get it?"

Lestrade grumbled in annoyed compliance. Sally was all but dragging him down the corridor.

"You are not going to waste away up here. You being there will not help him. And it's certainly not helping you."

She plonked him down on a chair in the cafeteria area, "Now, what do you want to eat?"

He just shrugged and murmured indistinctly. Sally kicked him.

"Give me something to work with!" she insisted, as he shot daggers at her, massaging his ankle.

"Anything without meat." He said, unhelpfully. He couldn't bear the thought of eating something that had been alive, at the moment.

Sally nodded, instinctively realising that this would be all she had to work with.

"Right. You want something sweet as well?" She asked. Lestrade considered.

"Doughnut." He said shortly. Sally nodded, knowing that if she asked 'what flavour,' he'd probably bite her head off. She'd have to guess.

Greg sat, watching her leave, and turned back to the the man sitting opposite him. Two seconds ago, the table had been empty. Now a familiar face looked across at him, painfully familiar. Painfully unwanted.

John smiled at him and rubbed his face.

"You're dying." Greg said matter-of-factly. John groaned and nodded.

"Apparently. Don't feel like it now, but." He scratched his head and sipped a cup of tea. Of course he had a cup of tea.

"You're not real." Lestrade glanced around, but the cafeteria wasn't particularly full. John screwed up his face.

"Good god this tea is terrible." He shuddered and put the cup down. His face rose, to look Greg in the eye.

"Are you alright?" he asked – that regular and solid _John_ look so ripe on his face that Greg, for a moment, was convinced he was real.

"No." Greg replied, "No, I'm not."

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't want you to be worried like this."

"Sorry. You're not going to change that." Greg replied, reaching for the cup the doctor had forsaken.

"I'm just your imagination, right?" John asked, pulling the disgruntled tea away before Greg could touch it, "Just a figment of your depression?" he raised the tea back to his lips. Greg shrugged, and watched as Sally moved closer to the front of the small queue.

"I don't care. I need to talk to someone, even if it isn't really you."

John buried his face in his hands, "It's Sherlock, isn't it? You're worried he's going to die."

"And you."

"Not as much," John shook his head, "Almost, but not as much."

"But I haven't been allowed to see you… you've got me really worried. No, goddam it, I'm scared."

John nodded, "But more for Sherlock than me." He said calmly. Greg shook his head.

"You might think that. But it isn't true."

"And yet, I'm just a figment of your imagination. Everything I say comes straight from your mind."

Greg scratched his nose idly, "So… your point is?"

"Do you need to talk about it?"

"No. Not with you. I need to talk to you. I mean, the real you. The real John."

John shrugged, "At the moment I think I'm as close as you're going to get."

Greg lapsed into silence, and John stood, brushing off his backside. He touched Greg's hand. Lestrade liked to think that he could feel it, but he knew that he couldn't.

"Don't look now," John said with a grin, "Mycroft's coming over. I'd skedaddle while you can."

Greg grinned, and John jogged into the indeterminate distance. Sally was coming over now, with a plastic box with steaming stir-fried vegetables, and another box with a doughnut in it. She was drinking from a creamy latte.

Mycroft was running – literally running across the main floor. This in itself should have made him suspicious, but he turned away, still disgruntled and hostile towards the politician. Sally set down the food and passed the salad to Greg, when Mycroft finally made it to the table.

"What do you want?" Greg snapped, "Come to apologise?"

Mycroft shook his head, panting, and then said two words, that in an instant turned Lestrade's world on its head.

"He's awake."


	9. Thoughts

_He had been on the phone. Sherlock remembered that - talking on the phone to Lestrade. Greg hadn't answered his phone, so he had called the Yard's. He had been 'greeted' by Donovan - no surprises there. He'd had to verbally battle to get her to pass him on, and eventually had relented, and caught a cab to the station as he talked. Bloody woman._

_There had been a case; of course there had been a case. The police had been inept - of course they had been inept. The murderer wasn't going to be identified, let alone caught, without some drastic action, which Sherlock was, of course, willing to take. He was on the phone when it happened. Nothing would compare. That moment, never in his life had he been so helpless._

_"But she might be in trouble. No, I know that they told you-" Sherlock said in exasperation - really, was Lestrade incapable of listening? That what it seemed like._

_"But she was a prime suspect!" Lestrade said over the top of him, but Sherlock cut him off._

_ "Look, do you…" he began. He was never to finish the sentence._

_He could see it, bearing down on them. For one wild, hope-filled moment, he thought it would turn and miss them. But his hope was in vain, and he screamed at the cabbie, leaping forward - to do what? To get out of the way? To grab the wheel? The cabbie was frozen, eyes wide and helpless. Stupid man, stupid, stupid man. Speed up! Get out of the way! Sherlock wanted to yell this, and more, but his mouth wasn't fast enough to catch up with his thoughts._

_He could only look on as the end of the lorry plunged into the side of the car. Right at him, it was aiming right at him._

_He could feel it. He felt the window shatter, felt shards smash into his face. He felt the car around him bend and crumple, moulded into a tight blob around him, by the sheer force of the lorry. Blood was pouring, he was choking on it, drowning in his own blood. What a way to die, killed by the thing that kept you alive. He felt the blood well in his throat, and he tried desperately to spit it out. It flowed over his lips, but there was no end to it, he was being sucked dry. _

_His body wasn't there, he couldn't feel it. Only pain. He was nothing but pain, there were no thoughts other than pain. He could hear his name, but that was pain too, as the noise echoed in his broken head. [Sherlock! I think he's choking, Jesus, Greg, help me! SHERLOCK!]_

_He wasn't dead, but at that moment, he wished that he was._

* * *

_He wasn't in the car any more. He was in another one, a whole car, and there was screaming and lights and noise, and more noise, and he hated the noise. His befuddled mind couldn't make out any of the voices, the noises. He wasn't sure if they were talking to him or screaming or singing, and it sounded like all three all mixed together. He thought he heard sirens. He thought he was in an ambulance. He thought that maybe he was alive._

_Then he thought nothing, other than welcome blank._

* * *

_Now he was in a room. A nicer room, because there wasn't any noise. He hurt all over, his body was heavy. His eyes didn't want to open, but he could hear voices. He lay still and let the pain wash over him. He could feel his body sinking back into sleep, or unconsciousness… or was it death? He wasn't sure, nor was he sure that he'd mind either way._

_He thought he could hear someone singing. It was a nice voice, he thought hazily, as the pain pulled him back under, and he thought he recognised it…_

_[who wants to live forever?]_

_But he was too far gone to hear any more, and would not wake again, not for a long time._

_If at all._


	10. The Detective

_"He's awake."_

Greg was surprised really. Though he had waited a week and more to hear those words, they frightened him. _He's awake_. They meant everything to him now, he held them to his chest as he pounded up the corridor. Mycroft was many paces behind him, and for once, all thoughts of John's absence and his fear for his other friend were tossed out of the proverbial window. Sherlock was awake. The detective was fighting through.

So when the door loomed before him, and he found it closed, it was more than a shock. He didn't know what the significance of the closed door was to his suddenly alien mind, but for so long had he associated the closed door with the absence and loss of a good friend that to see this one closed and not to know what was behind it was hard to bear. He skidded to a halt, and stumbled a little on the immaculate tiles. Mycroft was puffing as he drew up somewhere behind him, and Greg hardly turned. The now slightly dishevelled figure of the elder Holmes quickly moved forward to open the door, but Greg stopped him. His own hand reached out to clasp the handle.

It felt that that moment was worst of all. He could hear the beeping within, the faint sounds of movement, and was it his imagination? Or was the breathing a little louder? A little less regular?

The door creaked as he opened it. He heard another set of irregular footsteps behind him, heard Sally's voice raised in question, but the words were blurred and incomprehensible to his befuddled brain. All he could think, all that his brain could process was that one image.

The clear blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

They were blinking and leaking slightly, as he shuddered on the mattress. They weren't focusing properly, they rolled a little with his movements, but they were open, and that was all Greg cared about.

Mycroft was standing behind him now, and Lestrade became aware that he still had not moved. Sally was shuffling in, still holding his doughnut and vegetables. Emma, _his_ nurse, was on the other side of the bed, looking half happy and half apprehensive, which wasn't the most reassuring face she could make. Greg approached slowly.

This was the first time that he noticed the bedsores. Though he had of course seen the detective before, his lack of movement meant that the underside of his body was invisible, and now Greg found his eyes drawn to the bloodied elbows of the prone man. When one rests in bed for so long, Greg knew, the blood did not flow as it ought to. The newest addition to the detective's large list of injuries was perhaps the worst. It seemed to Greg like a symbol of his vulnerability, and the bulbous scabs were so contrasting to his almost transparent skin they seemed more abhorrent than the casts or drip feeds. At least the machines and bandages served a purpose.

Sherlock was tossing a little in the bed, and Greg's eyes widened. The movement seemed so alien after days of torpor. The eyes were flickering and god, it was all so wrong. But his face was turning to Lestrade, and those eyes, damn, those eyes could focus. His eyes were open and he could see, Sherlock was looking at Lestrade and a flash of recognition blinked across the ruined features. An indistinguishable sound burst from the detective's lips, and Greg pushed through the invisible wall to come closer to him.

"You… you okay?"

A fortnight. A fortnight of worry, tears, loneliness and anger, and that was all he could say. _Are you okay_.

It was obvious Sherlock thought the same, because his head twitched, and he looked away.

"Alright, that was a stupid question." Lestrade said in a choked voice.

Sherlock nodded slightly in agreement. The nod was little more than a minute bob of the head, but it was enough. Greg slowly sank into the available chair. The chair at the sickbed of a friend. Not the deathbed, he forced himself to think, the sickbed. Because Sherlock was awake. He was getting better.

The detective let out a breathy groan, and Lestrade automatically reached out a hand to comfort him, but realised this probably wouldn't work.

"Does it hurt? Wait, no," Greg corrected shakily, "That wasn't any better."

The detective coughed and tried to speak, and Greg hurriedly put a hand over the prone man's brittle digits. His heart jumped slightly as the fingers responded, shrinking away slightly. Never had Greg ever thought that Sherlock avoiding him would have made him happy.

"J-" came the cracked voice, "J-"

Greg shook his head, "Don't talk."

Sherlock widened his eyes and tried desperately to force out the word, "J-n. J-"

"John?" Greg interceded quickly. Sherlock nodded, and, energy spent on those syllables, lay back into the pillows. Greg glanced around for Mycroft, but the man was outside, arguing urgently with the nurse. Greg started slightly, noticing Sally standing in the corner with his lunch. John stood to her left, eyes sad and vacant, but Greg knew he wasn't real, because he couldn't see John, he wasn't allowed-

"I don't know, Sherlock. He's alive," Greg said hesitantly, and Sherlock feebly tried not to look relieved, "They won't let me see him…"

The stare said it all.

"I don't know." Greg replied, "I don't know why."

John shuffled forward - of course provoking no reaction from Sally, for the fairly sound reason that he wasn't actually there - and sat next to Greg, on the bed near Sherlock's twitching left leg. His body made no impression in the cover. Lestrade gave him a quick glance, but Sherlock moaned once more, and Greg's eye became fixed upon the face. The cheekbones had always been so prominent, but now they leaped out from the sallow skin as if trying to force their way through.

The detective's eyes were now feebly roving his face, holding no recognition. He put a hand on the nearest cast.

"You know me, right? You know me. I'm Greg. Greg Lestrade. You know me, right?" his voice broke as the face showed confusion, and a lack of recognition.

"The Detective Inspector. Scotland Yard. You helped me with cases. You know me, please…"

The detective's face looked pained, as though the act of associating memory with the name and pleadings was a physical struggle. Greg heard a subdued sniff, and realised Sally was watching intently. He saw her reflection in the window, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. He doubted this was at the sight of the detective, rather a response to the pain in his own voice.

Sherlock tried to speak again, eyebrows beginning to contract. He paused, with a pained expression, and sank further back into the pillows, expression and speech attempt abandoned. In this way he lay, and made no more attempt to respond to Lestrade's words.

"Okay." Greg said softly, "Okay. It doesn't matter anyway, does it? You're awake, right?"

John put a hand on Greg's shoulder. Lestrade knew that he couldn't feel it, and suddenly his mind seemed to explode.

Here he sat. His two best friends. One who could not speak, could not move, who did not recognise him. The other who didn't exist, except in that closed off world that was behind a hospital door. That friend was no more than an illusion now, an illusion and a memory.

As if life wasn't hard enough, he thought. He had hoped that seeing Sherlock awake would perhaps mend his heart a little, fill that hole that had so recently begun to gape.

He had never suspected it might break it further.

* * *

The time in that room flew past. Before he had time to fully realise it, it was all over, and the nurse was ushering him out. Lestrade went hesitantly, staring over his shoulder at the man in the bed. Emma was firm in this though.

"I'm sorry, but you have to leave. He needs more rest."

He didn't need rest, he needed to stay awake. When Sherlock was awake, it meant he was alive. When he was asleep, Greg didn't have this assurance. He wanted to stay there, to keep the detective from falling asleep again.

Sherlock couldn't speak, couldn't converse. His panics and shakings were impossible to decipher, and all Greg could do was watch as the words flashed through the detective's brain, but failed to make it out of his mouth. It was alright, because the man was breathing and moving. His eyes reacted to Greg's low voice, and Lestrade thought that there had been the smallest flash of recognition there. He hoped that there had been. He felt that combination of jubilation at Sherlock apparent recovery, and the reinstated misery at his sorry condition. He began to slowly inch his way up the corridor.

"Look, can you wait a minute?" Emma called. Greg looked around at her, still in a daze, unable to fully focus upon her face.

She held out a piece of paper with shaking fingers, "My number," she said, "If you ever need anything."

Greg took the paper and looked down at it, uncomprehending.

"I'm… I can't stay here." Emma said quietly. "I'm being moved to a different section of the hospital, different patients."

Greg glanced up, "This wouldn't have anything to do with Mycroft would it?" he rasped suspiciously. Emma didn't answer this question, and closed her eyes momentarily.

"I… I can't guarantee that my replacement will let you - you know, stay. After visiting hours. But if there's anything I can do, anything at all, I swear I'll try."

Greg looked up at her, the question shining out of his face, and it hardly needed to be phrased.

"Why?" he whispered quietly, "Why are you doing all this?"

The nurse stared him in the face, "Because I like you," she said in a sad voice, "and I had a friend who was dying. I only wish they had let me stay with her until the end."

There was a pause.

"Not that he's going to die," Emma said hurriedly, realising a potential interpretation of her words, "I mean, he's doing so well, I'm sure… I didn't mean… Oh, forget it." She mumbled.

Greg looked up and smiled at her.

"I appreciate it. Thank you, I really mean it."

Emma smiled, "Anything I can do, anything at all."

She turned and began to walk back up the corridor.

"Actually-" Greg called, and she turned around. Greg felt the words catch in his throat, but he forced them out.

"John." he said firmly, "I need to see him."

The nurse hesitated, and stole a quick glance at the figure of Mycroft standing in the doorway in conversation with Donovan. Greg could see her hesitation, but there was a level of defiance there.

"Alright," Emma said quietly, "Come on."


	11. John Hamish Watson

_Sherlock couldn't concentrate properly, not any more. His mind palace was all out of order, as though in the crash all the thoughts and memories had been thrown around along with his physical self. He couldn't connect the faces anymore. The tall man in the suit, he thought he knew him- the one he thought he might be related to. Were they related? Sherlock recognised him, certainly, and felt the faint stirrings of ill-will._

_He had automatically begun scouring his mind palace to link facial features, but found that could not remember what his own face looked like. How could he compare what he could not see? He felt a dull throb in his head that came with the anger. His memory, the facts and snippets, all the bits that were most important, they were disordered and broken. He was lost in a jumble of disjointed facts. He could look at that nurse, and he could identify the type of makeup she was wearing. But he looked at all their faces and couldn't piece them together. Why was she wearing makeup? It made her look all fake. It was all so wrong, he didn't know half the things he should, and the things he did know, he didn't understand. _

_He hurt. He knew that. He knew the pain, god he knew it. He could make sense of it, perhaps that was why he clung to it, that one thing in life that made sense…_

_His mind was muddling through the memories, flashes of it bursting before his subconscious mind. The blood of the crash, he could feel it catch in throat. Then there were faces, all the faces he couldn't connect. Women's faces and men's, and one man's in particular. A short man, with greying hair. Sherlock found many of those memories were like that, and he knew the man must be important in some way. If only he could remember… _

_He could see large buildings, men in suits, stairs and lifts and escalators. He got flashes of yellow paint, a deep pool, a fist was crashing onto his chin. A man and a woman were tied to a chair, and the woman was crying. That man again, that smaller man._

_Then the fog was rolling in off the hills, there were terrifying howls, and a dangerous man was slowly carving an apple. A woman was hitting him with a sharp, hard thing, the name surfaced in his head - and then there were shots, lots of shots, and fear was pounding through his veins. John was there, he was yelling things, and Sherlock was up so high-_

_John. That was the smaller man's name. John. He could remember that now. His name was Sherlock, and the man's name was John. The small man was his friend. John. John Hamish Watson. John Hamish Watson._

_Then John was back, and he was screaming. The shattered car had sliced open his face, and he was yelling a name, yelling for help, help that would not come. He was bleeding, and choking and crying Sherlock's name, but it was all wrong because he wasn't here, Sherlock couldn't see him, where was he? Was he alright? _

_John Hamish Watson, he thought._

_Not here, he thought._

_Where? He thought._

_Dead?_

_No._

_Alive. _

_John Hamish Watson. He had to be alive._

* * *

_There was another man sitting by his bed, and Sherlock couldn't connect his face. He couldn't connect any face. Except _John Hamish Watson_, who he had forced himself not to forget. _John Hamish Watson_ was important, he had to find out where he was. The man next to him was so sad, but Sherlock didn't know who he was… He thought the face was familiar, and unlike the man who might be related to him, this man stirred no negative emotions. Sherlock thought he might have been a friend. If he was a friend, perhaps he knew where _John Hamish Watson_ was. Perhaps he knew…_

_He tried to say the name, hoped he had the right one. He couldn't speak, it was all pain. Then the sad friend said it, it was real, it was the right name._

_"John?"_

_Sherlock felt a leap of triumph - whoever he was, he knew. There was a hand over his, and Sherlock didn't like it, it was too close._

_"I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know."_

_He felt his heart flutter in his chest - what did that mean?_

_"They won't let me see him."_

_Why not? Sherlock wanted to say, but found that he could not move his mouth properly._

_"I don't know why."_

_JOHN HAMISH WATSON._

_He had to remember it. John Hamish Watson. The man who had hurt so badly, who had called his name as the pain was all becoming too much - _

_And the sad faced friend didn't know. He seemed so sad when he said it. He didn't know, and Sherlock needed to know. The sad faced friend was saying a name, and his name. He was saying Sherlock, and Greg, and Sherlock didn't know who Greg was, but the sad faced man said it a lot, like it was important. Was it important? Sherlock didn't think so. He had one name to remember: John Hamish Watson. Maybe the sad man would understand. He had to remember John Hamish Watson._

_Remember John._

* * *

_Then there were drugs, a man was bending over his bed and murmuring something about sleep. Sherlock thought they were related, but he still couldn't find the name. The man in the suit he thought he knew, he was sad too, but he didn't touch Sherlock, he didn't croon or cry, and Sherlock liked it. _

_The hand that reached across the bed had something in it, and it made Sherlock feel all drowsy, and the pain was leaking away, which was nice, but he was leaking away as well, and JOHN HAMISH WATSON he had to remember JOHN HAMISH WATSON and all the pain was so numb and his mind was numb and JOHN HAMISH WATSON remember he had to remember-_

_And he slept._


	12. The Controller

_Emma smiled, "Anything I can do, anything at all."_

_She turned and began to walk back up the corridor._

_"Actually-" Greg called, and she turned around. Greg felt the words catch in his throat, but he forced them out._

_"John." he said firmly, "I need to see him."_

_The nurse hesitated, and stole a quick glance at the figure of Mycroft standing in the doorway in conversation with Donovan. Greg could see her hesitation, but there was a level of defiance there._

_"Alright," Emma said quietly, "Come on."_

* * *

If it hadn't been Mycroft they were apparently rebelling against, Greg felt sure he would not have that mix of triumph encased between the fear and hope at the thought of seeing John. But the triumph was certainly there as Emma pushed the door open, and he caught a glimpse of the shallow-breathing silhouette. Then, as he moved closer, the silhouette became a figure, and he stopped mid-stride.

The nurse looked at him, face slightly flushed, with repressed anger and the slight fear that came with directly countermanding an order. Greg however, could do nothing but gawp. His face had been drained of all colour and taken of consistency of cold, grey porridge.

"His… face?" he said in a thick voice.

"Well, you've seen him before, haven't you?" Emma said quietly, "You said you saw him for a few minutes, but he still had the bandages on then. I think it… they took off the bandages just over a week ago, and you haven't seen him since..."

"Oh my god."

Perhaps the most horrible thing was, Greg couldn't remember this much damage. He could look back to the crash, see the figures, hear the screams, but he couldn't remember where the blood on John's face had come from. There had been so much of it, everywhere, that it had been almost impossible to discern its point of origin. Now it was apparent.

There was a huge scar from the tip of John's right eyebrow down under the right side of his chin, puckered and hideous. The tiny blood vessels were bright red and web-like, arcing out of the lump of hardened tissue like demented lightning. The left side of the face was largely unscathed, at least in comparison to the right, but that served only to worsen the image of state in which the crash had left the other half of his face. Emma was right, he had not seen John without the bandages before. For a moment he felt as though he wish he hadn't.

"I thought it was for the best." Came a quiet, modulated voice from the door, "I thought, if you saw it –"

Lestrade didn't look around, didn't need to. He knew who was speaking.

"You _thought_, Mycroft. Never occurred to you that you might be wrong."

Mycroft took a step forward, the click of his boot echoing around the still whiteness of the room, "You were so affected by… well, to see John in such a state was…" Mycroft paused to choose his words with more care, "unadvisable."

Emma was glaring at Mycroft, but still Greg did not turn. The nurse looked back at him.

"I told him it wasn't like that." Emma said with the heat of anger burning her words as the left her mouth, "I told him you wouldn't want-"

"But he stopped me seeing him anyway." Greg hissed, torn between the overwhelming horror, the dregs of relief, and anger. He did not turn, because he didn't know what he would do if he did, "And now he's chucking you out, and replacing you with some woman who'll throw me out and-"

Mycroft tsked, and Greg felt an overwhelming urge to hit him. Mycroft continued, still in that infuriatingly cool and calm voice, "The replacement is a woman and a skilled nurse, whom I trust," he glared pointedly at Emma, who stood her ground, "One who won't countermand my orders."

"I'll countermand an order I think will cause people to suffer, _sir._ Keeping people alive and intact happens to be my job. And that's mentally as well as physically."

Mycroft glared at her, "Your job is related to patients, not visitors."

Emma looked like Greg felt. The nurse was practically steaming with previously suppressed rage.

"Haven't you got any feelings, you machine?" she hissed.

"No he hasn't," Greg said quietly, outwardly calm as a war of repulsion and anger continued to rage in his head, "And he can't comprehend that other people do. So he just messes with everyone's lives to suit his purposes-"

Mycroft protested," I was doing for your benefit, inspector, and I won't have you-"

Greg heard his voice rise, but felt strangely unconnected to it, "Not caring, not understanding , and just happily above it all, watching his little pawns dance over a huge fucking chessboard-"

"Pull yourself together! This is no way to behave-"

"Because nothing ever affects you, does it? Never affects you because you're so fucking aloof-"

"Just stop it, will you? Stop and reason, and think for a moment-"

"Well you _would_ wouldn't you? It's all thought and reason and damned cold _logic_, you don't give a damn about either of them do you? Not your own broth-"

"STOP IT! _Don't you dare!_"

The yell startled Greg out of his verbal rampage, because it came not from Emma, but from Mycroft. Lestrade slowly turned his head. The man was red in the face, breathing heavily. He looked quite demented, like something in him had finally snapped.

"Don't you… dare." He repeated, chest rising and falling heavily. His umbrella clattered to the floor as his hands clench the open air in paroxysms of urgent impossible action, "Don't you _dare _say it. How can you… that…that happens to be my brother in that room! Don't you get it? Of course I care! _I care_!" It was the first time Greg had ever seen him lose control in any way, and though his voice remained below the shouting level most normal people adopted in rage, the intensity was such that his words were spat rather than said. A red flush was creeping up from behind his collar, and he spluttered over the words, "And I can't do anything about it! I can't control this! I could always control it, don't you get it? Keep him safe, watch from behind a screen to make sure he didn't do anything stupid – I can't control this!"

Instinctively the other two took a few steps backward. For someone so always aloof and calm, it was terrifying to see Mycroft so affected by rage. His control was cracking, and his voice had begun to rise. For a moment or so the cool and calm façade slipped, and his face showed real distress.

"Because you can show it!" he said almost pleadingly, "You can cry and sit by his bed and – and - and _sing_ and- I can't do that! All I know is how to control people, control things, and it won't help! I brought in the best doctors, the best equipment. Nothing! I stopped your friends, thought I could protect some of them like I couldn't protect him… I stopped Molly and Mrs Hudson and, and - your police friends. I stopped them from coming again, and the only people I couldn't stop were you, and the seargent... Don't you get it? This is the only thing I know! This is the only way I can protect him, protect them, do anything. This is all I can do!"

Greg stared at him. The silence after that outburst seemed suddenly heavier than usual, laced with shock and a slight niggle of guilt on Greg's behalf. John's monitor beeped quietly, and there was the faint rustle of the prone man's breathing from behind him. Mycroft stood there, shaking slightly, and looking as though he wished he hadn't said anything. Lestrade suddenly realised that he could feel the tears running down his cheeks, tears he had not noticed before. Mycroft had no wetness in his eyes. The red flush was creeping back behind his collar.

One thing was suddenly very clear in Lestrade's mind. Mycroft's words- _"I stopped your friends- I stopped them coming again - I stopped Molly and Mrs Hudson - " _

They stood like this for some time, staring at each other. Then Mycroft turned, bent, picked up his umbrella and strode out of the room.

"Nurse," he said over his shoulder, "You're still being moved. Nothing has changed."

Greg took an angry step forward, but Emma's hand still held him back.

The door clicked shut behind Mycroft, leaving Greg unsure what to feel.

* * *

He and Sally sat next to John's bedside while Emma fussed around John, Sally with a cup of coffee. Lestrade was merely drinking in the sight of John's breathing. He had now become more used to the sight of the warped right side of John's face, but it still made him shudder.

"So that's why so many of the haven't come." Sally said musingly. Greg glanced up.

"Hmm?"

"You were saying how devoted to the fr— to Sherlock, that mortician is," Sally said, preventing herself at the last possible moment from calling him 'freak', "I would have thought she'd come anyway."

Greg shrugged, "I don't know how he managed that." He said quietly, "it'd have to be something pretty big to stop Molly coming down."

Emma looked up from where she was straightening John's blankets, "Apparently she's still overseas. He cancelled her flights, and got some men to stop her from coming. He's keeping her informed though. I heard him talking on the phone," she said by way of explanation, "and he was telling the landlady-"

"Mrs Hudson." Greg automatically corrected.

"He told her she'd be targeted by assassins or something, if she came here. She still wanted to come, and I know she's tried a couple of times. But some of his men have been there to stop her."

Lestrade couldn't help but grin, "Oh she would have given them a hard time." He said quietly. Then his face fell, "But they haven't called me. It's like-"

"He's a meddling bastard," Sally said frankly, "He probably stuffed around with their phones or something. He's tried to stop me coming, but I yelled him down. I think he realised you're not leaving. You might as well have some company."

Lestrade turned and raised an eyebrow, and pointed at John, "But you don't even _like_ them."

Sally shrugged, "I've got nothing against John, just his choice of I like _you_. I think that's what convinced him- if anyone else should stay, I'm an okay choice. I wouldn't go nuts like you did, but you wouldn't be alone."

Emma looked up, "Well it makes sense. You can look after Greg without getting hurt yourself. And I suppose, because _he_," she said_ he_ with a little of the antagonism still left from her anger at the elder Holmes, "he doesn't… understand. I guess that's why he stopped you from seeing John in this state. The sight of Sherlock sent you practically manic. I suppose he does care, in a way. Just not a normal way."

Lestrade wasn't sure what he thought about that notion, so he looked down at John again. The doctor looked so still, Greg had to reach out and place a hand on his neck to check for the pulse to reassure himself. Though the monitor still beeped in the background, Lestrade found it so much more comforting to feel the blood continuing to flow beneath his fingers.

John's hair was longer than he remembered it, and it was clean and free from blood. One eye was still swollen, and there were horrible dark shadows below the eyes, but he was, on the whole, intact. His legs were firmly encased in plaster, and Greg had a flash of memory from the scene of the crash. He was trying the car door, and John was screaming as the piece of metal dug into the flesh of his legs –

But he still had his legs, and that was something. It would perhaps take years for them to fully heal and for him to fully regain their mobility and function, but they would still work. If he ever got up out of the bed, of course.

"Do you think they'll make it?" he asked quietly. Emma looked up at him, then down at John.

"I don't know," she said, "but given their past history… and I suppose, just as a guess… if I had to put my money on it, I'd say yes. Yes, I think they'll make it."

It wasn't definitive, but it was enough for Lestrade.

"You mean that?"

The nurse nodded, "I really do. They're strong, and _were _healthy. And they have the will to live. Sometimes that's quite a big factor. And it will definitely help."

* * *

They stayed talking for another half hour, until Lestrade realised he'd left his phone in Sherlock's room. Resolved to immediately ring Mrs Hudson - and perhaps Molly - he had one last look at John, saving a mental picture of the doctor's breathing form, and then quickly exited, hurrying along the corridor up to the detective's room.

There was no-one inside, and so he slipped through the door. Sherlock was asleep again, eyes closed and breathing regular once more. His arm was hanging off the bed, the fingers still and limp against the white backdrop of the fresh sheets. Greg picked up his phone, and then gently guided Sherlock's trailing limb back onto the bed. As his hand came into contact, the prone fingers twitched slightly, hand half-closing in a loose spasm. Greg stared at it for a second, but it made no further movement.

_"They have the will to live." _

God, Greg hoped they did.

* * *

Greg exited Sherlock's room, phone in hand. He paused outside the door, looking back in. The detective looked more peaceful now, and Lestrade hoped the pain wasn't too bad for him.

"Excuse me?" said an aged voice from behind him. Greg turned, to see an old lady of about seventy looking up at him. She was a tiny thing, with long grey hair, and she smiled at him. He thought he recognised her, perhaps he had seen her before.

"My daughter's next door," she said sadly, "So I'm in and out every time she wakes. I was just wondering - I've seen you around a lot. You look like you never leave."

Greg shook his head, "I don't." he said in a hoarse voice.

The lady gave him a smile, "Well I wish you all the luck in the world," she said, patting his hand, and looking into the open room, at Sherlock, "He's a good-looking boy," she said finally, "You can still tell, even though… Is he your son?"

Lestrade looked at her for a long time, but no words seem to come out. The old lady seemed to take this as a 'yes.'

"Well that's quite wonderful, you know," she said, "Staying here all this time. I hope it all gets better. You're a good father."

She patted his arm once more, turned, and limped away. Lestrade watched her go, a mixture of emotions welling in the pit of his stomach that he couldn't identify.

.

.

* * *

**A/N: **_Couldn't resist that last bit… And Mycroft is just a very confused man._

_Anyway, you deserve an explanation for the lack of updates in this past couple of months. But be prepared for a huge dose of irony. A _huge_ dose of irony._

_Well here it is, irony and explanation: I was in a car crash. Yup. You read right. Car. Crash._

_Bit of concussion, and I broke one arm and many fingers, which made typing highly inconvenient. In fact, this chapter was done entirely by dictation. Thankfully no-one was seriously injured (in the accident that is, not the dictation sessions, although it was a close thing in both), we all survived, no-one's in a coma or anything... But why couldn't I have broken my legs and toes? _

_Anyway, I apologise for the inconvenience, and any downhill in quality of this chapter because of lack of finger dexterity and basic movement. Please bear with me. And thankyou for being patient._

**-JC**


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